


L'une Vers L'autre

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Anal Sex, Drama, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Romance, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 51,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cowritten with DaphneRunning. Pre-canon, chronicling Sinbad and Ja'far's adventures prior and after meeting Judal over the span of a few years-including the rise, fall, and rise again of Sindria, and Judal's descent into madness. SinJa and SinJu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

There are men--a lot of men, with lots and lots of weapons. Too many weapons, Sinbad is fairly certain, for repelling just a few lonesome travelers such as himself and his faithful servant. 

 

At least, that’s how he’d introduced them.

 

Should have fought them--should have told them who I was--should have done a full djinn equip and seen how they liked fighting me--

 

But he’s not at war with those men or the people they serve, and as Ja’far has told him so many times, when he’s the king, little details like that matter. 

 

Ideas lead into more ideas, that ever-present desire to go, to conquer something else, to see someplace new, to find another dungeon and show his mastery dominating him even now, and Sinbad’s feet itch with the need of it. So it’s probably no great surprise that he comes up with an idea sooner rather than later, and, well, it’s not his fault they’re looking for big scary men armed to the teeth, is it?

 

“Just for a few days,” he pleads with Ja’far, the bellydancer costume held enticingly (he hopes) between his fingers. “Just long enough to make them think we’re different people--I’ll be in disguise too, but they’ll still be looking for two men together. I swear it’s just for a few days.”

 

"No."

 

The answer leaves his tongue before Ja'far even fully thinks it through--reflexive, when faced with something so _ridiculous_. With a snort, Ja'far turns his back, an end to a conversation if he's ever signaled it and goes about repacking their things. Sinbad's things, really, because the man has a penchant for tossing everything about the moment they make camp, and isn't that stupid if they need to quickly leave even the borders of this country (as is highly likely)? "There are other dungeons. You'll find them, you don't _need_ this one." 

 

It’s with a growing resentment that Sinbad grabs Ja’far’s arm, spinning him around to face him. He’s quite certain that when he’d dreamed of becoming a king, he hadn’t expected to take orders from just any assassin brat that managed to worm his way into his good graces, and certainly hadn’t expected to have to _plead_ , to _wheedle_.

 

“They’re hiding something,” he explains, eyes hungry for the knowledge. “Whatever’s in that dungeon, someone thinks it’s important or secret or powerful enough to guard what no one is ever supposed to guard. I _need_ to go in there. And if you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone, and you can walk back to Sindria.”

 

Ja'far's lips part, fully prepared, for all of a moment, to tell Sinbad _fine, do it yourself, see how quickly you conquer this dungeon if its djinn is so very powerful_ _or if you can do it all_. Then he wavers, as annoyed at the idea of Sinbad dealing with this alone as he is the concept of going undercover in… _that_. What if the man _did_ die? Who would know? 

 

"… I'm not a woman." Frustration furrows his brow, and he firmly pulls his arm away. "I don't even look like one." _Tell me otherwise and I'll hurt you._

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes. Is _that_ what this reluctance is about? “Of course you don’t look like a woman,” he says, as if there’s nothing more obvious in the world--which of course to him, there isn’t. “That’s why it would _work_. But you’re young enough that you could pass for one with the right distractions in place,” he adds, dangling the jingling costume. “I’d wear it myself, but that would probably raise rather more interest than we want, hmm?”

 

Ja'far tries not to grimace at the thought. "… Why does it have to be _that?_ " he crossly mutters, glaring at the costume in question. "Why can't I just be your wife or something equally _normal?_ "

 

Sinbad tries to ignore the little flutter in his chest at the thought of Ja’far as his wife. Surely, it’s just been far too long since he’s had a woman. Surely. Or maybe it’s just fear at hearing the dreaded word. Maybe a combination. “Three reasons. First, no one in this caravan is looking to sell boring clothing--sorry, _normal_ clothing, and I got those quite easily by gambling. Second, the art of distraction means that we go in being more interesting than normal travelers so they don’t look too closely. No one remembers what a man with an eyepatch and a mustache looks like, they just remember the eyepatch and the mustache. And three, a dancer is supposed to bring many strange items and tricks with her. Like these,” he says, plucking at a red wire with his finger. “They’re searching all the bags, and otherwise we’ll have to leave them behind.”

 

Reflex makes him draw his arm back again, clutching at the wire wrapped about his arms. _If it were just me, I could get in without them noticing me because they wouldn't_ see _me. You're really useless._ For the umpteenth time, Ja'far wants to ask why it's so _important_ that Sinbad see what they're hiding, why he _needs_ to know--but is there a reason at all, really, other than Sinbad _wants_ to? A sigh, and Ja'far averts his gaze, lips pursing in open irritation. 

 

"… Fine." The word is sour on his tongue as he finally agrees. "But after this, we're _burning it._ " 

 

Sinbad’s smile is bright enough to burn off the clouds hanging in the overcast sky. “Perfect! Get changed, then, and I’ll think of our story. We’ll spend the night with the caravan here, so no one suspects us tomorrow morning. Have to be fresh when we go in!”

 

Ja'far is going to kill him.

 

He's going to kill Sinbad, and whoever raised that dungeon, and maybe even the djinn inside of it at this rate. Slinky, fluttery material feels strange on his skin, a far cry from rougher-hewn fabric that actually serves a _purpose_. This-- _this_ is just ridiculous, down to every jingling, beaded accent, every scrap that clings a little too closely and makes him feel every bit the waif he is next to Sinbad's height and breadth. _'Young'_ _isn't why I pass as a girl, and you know it,_ Ja'far bitterly thinks, fumbling with a last fastening of the stupid outfit as he hisses through his teeth. It's even in shades of violet and red so his wires _match_ , so how long has Sinbad been planning this, exactly? 

 

Face flaming, he promptly sweeps his cloak back around his shoulders, huddling down into it as he reemerges. "Don't look so disappointed," he flatly snaps. "I'm not letting you eyeball me all night on top of everything else." 

 

Ja’far is so _prickly_ tonight (most nights, if Sinbad is being honest with himself) that Sinbad feels the urge to snatch back his hand, as if he’d poked something venomous and spiky under a rock. 

 

It probably doesn’t say much about his character that he’d spent many many hours doing exactly that as a child. 

 

“Loosen up,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, pulling Ja’far onto his lap to general cheers from the other men around the fire. “And take that cloak off,” he adds, loudly enough to be heard. “You look like a little boy like that.”

 

 _Loosen up_ , Sinbad says. How he is supposed to do that when he's pulled into the man's lap in _public_ , in front of a dozen men? It isn't something that Ja'far allows in private, either, and he knows he's as stiff-backed as a board, teeth grinding and trying very, very hard not to shed blood. 

 

Right. They're supposed to be undercover. The problem is he's an assassin, not a _spy_. 

 

Ja'far feels his skin flush all the hotter as he nevertheless lets the cloak slink down his shoulders, pooling to his hips as he shifts closer to Sinbad for the sake of _hiding_ far more than any perceived affection. 

 

Despite having told the truth about his reasons for wanting Ja’far all prettied up, Sinbad can’t help but feel inordinately pleased with himself for making Very Good Choices. Ja’far is a slight, but curvy thing, wriggling into his lap like the most obedient slave girl, no matter that he can nearly hear the younger man’s teeth cracking. “There’s a good girl,” he says with a rakish grin, barely at all faked for his audience. “Here, some of my friend’s fine wine for the prettiest girl in the kingdom!”

 

A merchant, already red-faced from too much of his own wares, is only too happy to pour another glass with a snaggle-toothed smile, pressing it into Ja’far’s hand.

 

He wants to knee Sinbad in the balls. Nearly does, though he catches himself in time and perches himself over a thigh instead, a demure lowering of his lashes far easier than attempting a smile in thanks for the wine. 

 

"If your hand slips any lower," Ja'far breathes into Sinbad's ear, and for all the world it looks like he's nibbling on it, "I will kill you." 

 

Threat or no, the words are low and breathy, and Sinbad’s grin only spreads, just to falter slightly at remembering that this is _Ja’far_ , who alone of everyone he’s ever taken to bed hadn’t enjoyed having Sinbad between his legs terribly much.

 

Ah, well. He’s still quite nice to look at. 

 

Sinbad shifts his leg to better help Ja’far press his together--no sense in advertising what he is, after all. His hand around Ja’far’s waist creeps up, teasing at the hem of the sheer, slinky top. “Is this more to your taste, darling?” he asks, eyes dancing with mischief.

 

Maybe he _needs_ that wine. The mouthful Ja'far gulps down goes straight to his head immediately, but that makes this all a little bit more bearable. " _Must_ you?" he breathes, doesn't hiss, no, he's _trying_ to keep from snarling and instead sound like a girl instead. 

 

"Thought you'd be a man that liked 'em with a little bit _more_ ," a man laughs to Sinbad's right, giving his shoulder a jostling nudge. "Guess the doll look works for some, not for me. Gotta have something to grab." 

 

Ja'far marks that one for killing later. 

 

Sinbad shoots the man a wink. “What’s life without a little variety, eh?” he asks, taking the opportunity to tug on Ja’far’s earlobe with his teeth. Why not? He’ll probably never have the chance again, and Ja’far _probably_ won’t kill him while they’re in public.

 

Even if he does-- _what a way to go._

 

“Besides,” he adds aloud, fingers walking their way up to flick over a nipple. “You know what they say, all you need is a mouthful.” He’s about to say more, but his finger brushes against something cold, hard, and suddenly his world narrows to how _interested_ he is and how painful the front of his pants are.

 

No. Scratch that. He'll just kill himself.

 

His face _burns_ , and Ja'far bites his lower lip until it nearly bleeds, a safety mechanism to keep himself from slapping Sinbad's hand away sharp and fast. That isn't what those are _for_ , it's a village tradition that he can't remember _not_ having, and it takes every bit of willpower he has left not to scoot away when he can feel how hard Sinbad is against his thigh. 

 

More annoying, perhaps, is how his own body perks and shivers just a bit at having Sinbad's fingers touching him like that.

 

 _Don't, don't, don't, I'll bite you until you bleed_ , _just_ don't--

 

Sinbad hardly hears the men laughing, with how intently he’s focused on every little brush of his finger over that sleek little ring, and how has he never noticed that Ja’far has such a thing before? It’s something so provocative, so _lewd_ for quiet, fiery, angry Ja’far, and even if he caught fire right now Sinbad doubts he’d be able to stop himself from playing with the cool metal.

 

“Eh, to each his own,” says an older man to Sinbad’s left with a shrug. “It’d wilt my balls to have something so frigid close to ‘em!”

 

That gets a raucous chorus of laughter, to which Sinbad _has_ to respond, “Gentlemen, _please_ , the slower to cook, the sweeter the meat!” It’s not really his fault, the way his fingers pinch and tug at that. It’s a show, for the benefit of the crowd, not some base amusement of his own because his cock is so hard it’s going to bore its way through coarse fabric.

 

Ja'far had promised he'd bite him, but all he manages instead is to bite back a _whimper._

 

He should have taken them off, but he'd been so distracted, so embarrassed--but now, it's even worse. His face flames, and the little tremble that rakes down his spine is impossible to suppress, the arch in his back even _harder_. "S--" Ja'far isn't sure if it's a protest in the form of Sinbad's name, or a plea for him to _stop_ , and so he bites his tongue again, hands fisting against Sinbad's chest as he shivers and huffs. 

 

This isn't what he agreed to, not at _all_. 

 

Sinbad’s getting dangerously close to dancing on the edge of a knife, but damned if he can stop. He’s never been able to resist poking at things, even-- _especially_ if it’s something that can bite him. Ja’far isn’t doing much biting now, more squirming and panting, and that’s such a pretty sight that Sinbad hardly notices they’re in front of people at all, too wrapped up in the warm press of Ja’far’s thighs in his lap, and the warming metal ring that he hooks around the tip of his finger and tugs.

 

Really, he could hardly blame Ja’far for walking back to Sindria alone at this point, or even off in another direction. But even knowing that, it’s impossible for him to _stop_. 

 

So he doesn’t. Not through the caravan songs, and not through the wayfarers’ meal, thumb dragging over what has to be tender, sore flesh by this time as he holds a bite at Ja’far’s mouth. “Open up, my girl,” he breathes.

 

He doesn't _want to_. 

 

Then again, Ja'far doesn't want much of any of this, least of all squirming in Sinbad's lap in front of so many others, his own body betraying him with every little pull of that ring Sinbad is so _obsessed_ with. He's had it for all four years that he's followed at this man's heels, why is it so _fascinating_ now? Admittedly, Ja'far has never flaunted it, less than inclined to be unclothed in the man's presence, but _still_ \--

 

Ja'far's eyes squeeze briefly shut, embarrassment making it almost impossible for him to _breathe_ as he nevertheless parts his lips, tasting nothing no matter how he chews and swallows all the same. "… You're going to make it sore," is the one, quiet protest he does manage underneath his breath. 

 

Chewing and swallowing is pretty much beyond Sinbad at this point. Those last few breathy words, an unhappy little plea no matter the way Ja’far squirms on him, are enough to make his throat lock up dry. He takes a large gulp of wine to steady himself, before deciding that he’s been plenty cruel enough. “Go on, then,” he says, letting his hand trail down to Ja’far’s waist so he can pick the boy up, setting him on his feet. “Go wait in our tent. I’ll come in to take care of you in a few minutes.”

 

_Maybe by then I’ll have calmed down enough that I won’t jump you so hard you forget why you ever liked me._

 

Oh, god, there _is_ mercy left in this man.

 

Ja'far manages a fast nod, whirling away in a flurry of sheer silks and his hastily drawn-about cloak. He's certain that even his neck is flushed red, and if not before he's on his feet, definitely _after_ when his retreat is met with jeers.

 

"Ahh, never mind, I get it now, I get it," the man to Sinbad's right laughs, clapping him hard on the shoulder. "Those _legs_ \--damn, so that's where all her meat is!" 

 

Sinbad laughs along with them, no matter how his eyes swivel to follow. “You can keep your breasts and wings,” he agrees, an openly lecherous grin on his face. “I’ll take juicy thighs any day!” 

 

There’s enough wine to keep him busy for another half-hour, telling stories with the menfolk as one by one, the women retire, unclipping their veils in relief once they leave the press of the throng. He tries not to drink _too_ much--if he’s out of control by the time he gets back to the tent, he’ll have no one to blame tomorrow but himself.

 

Finally, he staggers back, cautiously opening the tent flap in case Ja’far’s asleep.

 

As if he could sleep, after all of that. 

 

Ja'far is never inclined to this sort of thing. _Ever._ There's little that disinterests him more than sex, quite frankly--the desire to roll around with another person, to end up hot and sweaty and in need of a bath shortly after appeals little to him, especially after allowing Sinbad between his legs twice before. It's decent enough, he supposes, letting another person touch his cock, but certainly not as good as having his own hand do the same (and better, because no one knows his body like he does himself), and he isn't exactly inclined to do that, either. 

 

But now is that very thing, case and point. 

 

It's _embarrassing_ , horribly so, knowing that Sinbad riled him to this point, with fingers too insistent and worrying and _maddening_. It's why even though he's tried to resist, his hand finds its way between his legs once he's stripped of that _horrible_ outfit and pressed down into blankets, his teeth biting down into them to stifle his voice as his fingers drag up the too-hard length of his cock.

 

Ja'far stops himself, at least, from grabbing at that ring again, just like Sinbad had.

 

Sinbad had planned on being a gentleman. 

 

It’s the least he could do, he’d told himself, trying to quell his natural (of course natural, all men are the same) urge to come in with his hard cock leading the way, grabbing cornsilk hair and dragging those soft lips to his cock. It’s the least he can do to come in quietly, kindly, and politely turn his back to go to sleep, taking care of his self-inflicted problem with a few tight squeezes of his own hand and trying not to wake his bedmate.

 

How the hell is he supposed to be a gentleman when confronted with a sight like this?

 

His eyes trail down over Ja’far’s clenched muscles, bared nude for him--probably not for me, part of his mind admits, but he ignores it--and flushed and sweating and touching himself, and the last of Sinbad’s desire to be good leaps out through the open tent flap.

 

Sinbad closes the flap, slowly and securely. Then, he kneels next to the pallet on the floor and flips Ja’far over, pinning him down on his back. “Let me take care of that,” he breathes, feeling his heart in his throat, and bends down to close his lips over the tip of that hard flushed cock before the younger man has a chance to protest.

 

In an attempt to process what just happened, Ja'far's mind draws a blank.

 

He _wants_ to shriek a protest, but the sound catches in his throat, a little, strangled squeak escaping instead as his hips jerk on their own accord, mouth falling open with a ragged gasp. He wants to struggle, to put a foot in Sinbad's face and huddle up in a corner, mortified and ashamed and undoubtedly unable to look at the man for a good _week_ \--but god, his mouth feels _good_ , and Ja'far finds himself unable to do little but bite his lip, to squirm and thrash with a hot, desperate breath exhaled through his nose. 

 

"D-don't--" It's a last, pathetic effort, more out of _principle_ than anything, and there's little his body does to support the protest, especially with how his thighs tremble before falling open in resignation. 

 

If there’s one thing Sinbad knows how to spot by this point in his life, it’s when a woman’s lips and desires are saying too different things.

 

True, Ja’far is no woman, but he has the soft creamy thighs of one, and they’re spreading like a harlot’s under Sinbad’s ministrations. God, there’s something about Ja’far, because this is nothing Sinbad usually likes. He’s never been drawn to a man’s cock a day in his life, save his own, and on the rare occasion that he does bed a large-eyed pretty boy, it’s usually on all fours like a dog, his hands full more of slender waist and soft hair than the angles and flat planes that make up a man’s body. 

 

He wants to touch them now, one hand coming to rest on a parted thigh--warm, still a bit sticky with his recent efforts, and as soft under his hand as he could want--and the other trailing up to hook a finger around that tantalizing, fascinating ring through the boy’s nipple. Sinbad can’t help but twist it a little as his mouth dives down, groaning at the way Ja’far is leaking across his tongue, something he’d never thought he’d crave like he does now.

 

 _No no no no no_ is the mantra that Ja'far wants to think, wants to _say_ , but instead his mind fixates on how every _tug_ of that ring seems to go straight to his cock, making his hips jump, his muscles twitch and another mindless, barely strangled-back keen leak from his throat. He squirms, clamping a hand over his own mouth as his eyes roll into the back of his head, his hips lurching up and his heels planting into the ground as the slick, hot warmth of Sinbad's mouth is _too much_ , the twist and pull of his fingers enough to drive him mad--

 

Ja'far sobs as he comes, shuddering, bucking up mindlessly, his toes curling so tightly that it _hurts_ , with every muscle bunching and twitching and spasming before he simply collapses bonelessly, flushed too-hot and panting hard. 

 

 _This_ is the part that Sinbad had been dreading, as Ja’far spills over his tongue thick and hot and...honestly, not awful. It’s a relief, and Sinbad swallows without retching, even dragging his tongue up the head to suckle until Ja’far’s clean before releasing him.

 

He revels in every shiver, every shake of Ja’far’s body, everything he hadn’t been able to _manage_ the last couple times he’d managed to coax the boy onto his knees. _This_ is how he’s wanted to have Ja’far, trembling under his touch, sated and wanting all at once. Sinbad wipes his mouth, shedding his clothes as he crawls over the boy, laying down between his parted thighs to bring his mouth to Ja’far’s ear. “Did you like that?” he breathes, hot and intimate over the shell of Ja’far’s ear, close enough to bite.

 

Sinbad's weight against him would normally annoy him, but right now, it makes him shudder, leaves him squirming down into the pallet half in pleasure, half in some attempt to get away, as over-sensitive as he is right then. 

 

And _god_ , Sin is hard against him.

 

Ja'far bites his lip, head turning aside as his face flames all the more. "You didn't have to," he hoarsely whispers. "I… I would have taken care of it myself." 

 

“Wanted to,” Sinbad murmurs, and leans forward just enough to nibble on Ja’far’s ear, then down along his neck. “Love touching you.” He does check, but the other nipple is unadorned, though it’s still fun for Sinbad to tug and twist, flicking his fingernail across it gently as he _tastes_ Ja’far. 

 

Slowly, so as not to scare him any further, he wraps a hand around one of Ja’far’s, sliding it down to brush across the hardness of his cock. “See how much I like it?”

 

There's an urge, out of some lingering modesty, to squeeze his legs together, to lock his knees and get _away_ when his body stirs like this, even so recently after he's already spilled and in Sinbad's _mouth_ at that, so what is modesty anymore? Ja'far's brow knits all the same, eyes shutting tightly no matter how his fingers curl, the little hitching breath to follow impossible to suppress as he feels how _heavy_ Sinbad is in his grasp, how hard and thick and that's never been something he likes _before_ , but now--

 

"I…" Is there something he's supposed to do? Say? His hand shakes a little, as does his breath, and arousal pools hot and low in his belly as he thinks about how it might be _good_ , for once, if Sinbad tried to put his cock inside, no matter how previous attempts were… less than enjoyable. "You can… keep doing that, then," he whispers.

 

Ja’far is _pretty_. He’s a delicate sort of pretty, with strength to him nonetheless, like velvet --no, _silk_ \--over steel. Really, Sinbad doesn’t know how _anyone_ manages to resist him, much less how he’s supposed to.

 

So, for once, he doesn’t, tasting his fill of pale, pale skin, across Ja’far’s neck and down to his chest, sealing his lips over that enchanting little ring and sucking, tugging with his teeth as he ruts into Ja’far’s hand. This is different from the confused, annoyed permission he’d achieved twice before, less permissive and more _wanting_ , and Sinbad intends to savor every minute of it-- _slowly_.

 

He shouldn't _like_ that so much. As much as Ja'far tells himself that, though, there's no helping the arch of his back, the shuddering sighs that escape his lips when Sinbad's _mouth_ now torments that ring, leaving his heart thudding too fast in his chest, his legs splaying wider still as every pull and tug only serves to remind him of being in Sinbad's lap, his fingers at work on the same nipple, his cock hard, so hard against Ja'far's thigh--

 

His fingers squeeze and tremble, the upward lurch of his body embarrassingly needy, but he can't make himself _stop_. "W-hy do you… like it so much?" he manages to rasp out, huffing out a hot breath. "It's…" _God, that almost hurts_ , he thinks, biting his lip again, and even if he thinks that, it makes his cock jump all the same, his fingers squeezing tighter around the hard length of Sinbad's cock. 

 

“Mm? Like this so much?” Sinbad raises his head, with a last flick of his tongue over the now-warm metal. His eyes flutter as he rolls his hips forward into Ja’far’s hand, and it’s hard to focus on the ever-changing colors of Ja’far’s eyes. “It’s so...inviting. It tells me you like something I never thought you’d like.”

 

He lowers his mouth again, kissing, suckling, before murmuring, “The times before when you let me into your bed I was selfish. Let me show you how good it can be.”

 

What part of this does Sinbad thinks he _likes_ , exactly?

 

If it's the way the man's mouth feels around that piercing, pulling and licking and tugging, then Ja'far can't really fault him on it. Every little pull and scrape of teeth seems to go straight to his cock, and Ja'far shivers, trying not to squirm too much lest his body rile itself even further and he loses himself _again_ , too fast, too embarrassingly fast. "… Okay." He's not thinking straight if he agrees so readily, with his only real hesitation brought about by trying to remember how to breathe.

 

 _Slow_ , that’s the key. Ja’far likes to be touched slowly, relentlessly, and Sinbad sets out to make a map of that enticingly shivering body with his mouth. Down his chest and oh, if his mouth isn’t on it, his fingers stray back there, tugging and pinching as his mouth trails down the softness of Ja’far’s belly. 

 

It’s been years since he’d seen the scars on Ja’far’s legs close up, and they’ve faded considerably. He brushes his lips across the top of one, tongue trailing along the edge where raised puckered skin meets smooth flesh. “Do these still hurt you?”

 

Ja'far nearly yelps, muffling it down to a squeak again that sounds more mouse than man. He lets his head fall back with a whoosh of breath leaving his lungs, and thinks Sinbad must be out to _kill him_ , because even if the scars themselves aren't sensitive, the skin around them _is_ , and god, he needs to just _stop_. 

 

Instead of asking Sinbad to do as much, though, his leg merely twitches within Sin's grasp, toes curling uselessly as his hands drag away to fist into the blankets beneath him. "N-no." Ja'far swallows hard, averting his gaze skyward. Anything, _anything_ to focus on rather that how hard his cock is again, how it's leaking over his belly and he just wants to reach down and touch himself again--or better yet, grab Sinbad's cock again, maybe guide him between his legs and… "Really… sensitive, though--"

 

Sinbad could _kill_ his past self. Had there always been this lovely, sensual creature under the cold exterior--and had he _squandered_ it by focusing on his own pleasure? The answer, he’s coming to suspect, is an emphatic yes.

 

He kisses his way down nearly to Ja’far’s ankle, then slowly up again. “Too sensitive?” he murmurs, catching a glimpse of the boy’s hard dripping cock and knowing that _this_ time, he’s doing it _right_. Even if his own cock throbs, neglected between his legs, it’s better to go slow, to make Ja’far want this, want _him_. _It takes a while to warm the blood of a snake._

 

Ja'far could cry. He thinks he might be a little, from how his vision blurs hot and wet. His fingers twitch, and it's thoughtless how they lift to scrape over his own nipple, never mind that there isn't a piercing there--it still sends a shock straight to his groin, leaving him to bite his lip, a shuddering breath exhaling through his nose as his muscles bunch, tight and trembling beneath Sinbad's hands. "Too sensitive," he gasps out in agreement, and it's easy, then, to blame the quiver that runs up his spine for making his fingers twist and _pull_ on that same nipple.

 

A flicker of motion catches Sinbad’s eye, and he looks up just in time to catch sight of Ja’far toying with his own nipple, a sight that makes him groan and twitch. “I think,” he rasps, thumb running over that scar, then up to brush over Ja’far’s balls and the underside of his cock, “you like being touched where you’re too _sensitive_.” 

 

He wraps a hand around his own cock, squeezing to relieve just a little of the building tension that threatens to drive him mad. “Where else do you want me to touch you, Ja’far?”

 

He doesn't want to _say it._

 

What choice does he have, when he can barely see, can barely _think_ from the heat that washes over him, making him pant and shudder? "Inside me." The _twinge_ that runs through Ja'far at that thought makes him bite down hard on his lip, eyes tightly shut as his skin heats even further. Ah, he's so hot that it almost hurts, and the thought of saying more makes him burn that much more, but-- "You said before… that you could make it feel good. Maybe this time--" 

 

Sinbad sends up a ragged prayer to the god of third chances. There’s a little pot of aloe nearby--a necessity when they travel, given Ja’far’s complexion--and he wastes no time in slicking his fingers, making sure they’re _warm_ when they trail up the cleft of Ja’far’s ass.

 

He can make Ja’far love it. He knows that now, where he’d been only arrogant about it before. Now, he moves slow, relentlessly, teasing his fingers over the hole for what feels like painfully long hours before carefully teasing one inside.

 

He watches Ja’far’s face intently for clues, knowing he can’t trust the words coming out of his mouth for the truth, not if Ja’far is inclined to just _let him_. The boy is so _tight_ , even just around one finger, and Sinbad’s cock aches and throbs at the thought of being buried in that sweet heat.

 

Before--and Ja'far recalls it well, because it had been annoying at best, too fast and too tense and just _unwanted_ \--was nothing like this. Before, Ja'far hadn't thought the slick slide of something inside of him was any good at all, but now… now is something different, no matter how there's a little edge of pain to it all, no matter how he tries to stop himself from squeezing down and being shakily, shudderingly tight. He can't, he just _can't_ , and it's with a whimper that he sags back into the pallet, teeth worrying into his lower lip and his legs splaying wide, as if that will somehow _help_.

 

He shouldn't _like it_ so much like this.

 

"D…" His voice cracks a little, raspy and strained. "Don't stop." 

 

Sinbad has conquered dungeons that were less difficult, and offered less reward.

 

He works in a second finger, trailing kisses up to Ja’far’s chest again as if he’s pulled there, fastening his mouth to that nipple that must be quite sore and flushed by now, but damned if he can stop. He curls, twists, spreads his fingers apart, even as he teases that ring with his teeth, learning just how hard to press on which strings to play Ja’far’s body like the fine instrument it is. He’s aching, pressing his cock down against Ja’far’s soft thigh just to relieve some of that pressure, rutting gently to keep himself from simply losing his mind as his fingers delve deeper. “Good?” he murmurs.

 

_Hurts, too much, hurts inside and my chest and everything--_

 

Maybe more accurately than _hurts_ is that it _aches_.

 

Every pull, every scrape of Sinbad's teeth makes him _twitch_ , and his hips jerk on their own accord, a muffled, throaty sound wringing its way from his clenched teeth. That arch, just that one little arch and wriggle of his body down onto Sinbad's fingers makes him feel like he's _melting_ , all because Sin's fingers are suddenly deeper, curling against something that leaves him sucking a breath too sharp and too fast, torn between doing it _again_ lest he like it that much more.

 

God, to hell with it. 

 

"Good," Ja'far whispers, shutting his eyes tightly so he doesn't have to _look_ at Sinbad when he wriggles down, a sob choked into his throat as he presses himself down onto Sinbad's fingers, the slick, tense length of them inside his body, pressing just _right_ making his vision swim. Sinbad's cock is so _hard_ against him, and Ja'far can't _think_. "I… just… p-put it in already…" 

 

Those are words Sinbad had never thought he’d hear Ja’far say, and they’re better than any time he’s heard them from any other person in his life. He nods, a bit unsteady, swallowing hard as he pulls his fingers out, slicking his cock as he leans down to press a kiss--damn it, even if he doesn’t want it, he’s getting kissed at least once after all the times Sinbad’s been turned away.

 

His own breathing is a bit on the rapid side as he kneels between Ja’far’s thighs, a place he’d never thought he’d talk his way into again, and ah, he’d better get on with it before Ja’far changes his mind--or because if he doesn’t get inside Ja’far soon, what with how his cock aches with every beat of his heart, he’s going to die.

 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” he breathes, and it’s the last thing he has the mind to say before he slides in, as slow as he can manage and probably not quite slow enough.

 

Ja'far would be lying if he said it didn't hurt, but that doesn't mean he's _going_ to say it. 

 

It's too much, just like the first couple of times and it isn't any less now. If anything, it's _more_ , because Sinbad is so hard that Ja'far can barely stand it, no matter how he spreads his legs wider, trying to breath slow and deep and _relax_. It doesn't help. Everything aches, everything shivers and twitches and _tenses_ , but his body all but begs for it all the same, his feet planting in firmly no matter how the muscles of his legs quiver, no matter how he can do little but pant fast and hard and reach up to grab at Sinbad's arms, voice lost as he's stuffed so utterly _full_ of cock. 

 

He still can't think, and he barely even _hears_ the desperate, hitching whine that pulls from his throat, can barely process the mindless desire to wriggle _down_ , to feel every hard, thick inch of Sinbad inside of him, slick and dripping and filling him. 

 

The difference this time, of course, is that he _likes it._

 

Sinbad had _never_ thought he’d see Ja’far like this.

 

Under him, yes. Wanting him, he’d hoped, certainly imagined. Like this--writhing, wanting, desperate, keening--no, he’d never thought it would happen, and has never been happier to be wrong in his life.

 

With that thrill comes the urge to make this _good_ , a burden he’s never felt so acutely before, and instead of driving in hard and insistent, he slides in slow, hands moving down Ja’far’s smooth waist to his hips, lifting them so he can move in that much _deeper_ , deep enough in that tight heat that Sinbad has to pause for a moment lest he spend himself too soon. His lips part in a shaky smile as the sweat beads on his brow, buried to the hilt in his most trusted friend. “Still good?” he manages.

 

Ja'far's breath hiccups, and it's all he can do to answer with a wordless nod, rapid and more than a little _needy_. Sinbad is inside of him so deeply that every little shift, every twitch of the man's cock is enough to make him squirm, and just having him say a few words seems to rumble through him, resonating down his spine from how intimately they're connected.

 

He can barely stand it. He wants _more_. 

 

"Move," he whispers, the flush in his cheeks so dark and so hot that Ja'far thinks he'll pass out from that alone, no matter how it feels to squeeze his thighs tight about Sinbad's hips. It makes him feel that much more _full_ , and he isn't sure if he likes it or can barely handle it. Maybe it's both, judging by how his mouth simply falls open at the sensation, and how his back arches with his next, ragged huff of breath. "Please--"

 

It’s as if Ja’far doesn’t appreciate how hard Sinbad’s trying _not_ to move. Then again, moving is exactly what he wants, and ah, maybe the thing about going slow is only in the _buildup_ , something he tries to keep in mind for next time with the two brain cells that aren’t currently fizzled into nothingness. Ja’far feels better than Sinbad remembers, hotter and tighter, so tight it _hurts_ , and he can’t help but love the way he clenches down with every wriggle.

 

He thinks vaguely of saying something about acquiescing to such a pretty thing’s commands, but that’s all flirting and artifice and nothing that he needs with Ja’far. Besides, it’s all he can do to keep his mind as he drives in, harder than he means to, yanking up on Ja’far’s hips to try and hit that angle that had made him see stars on Sinbad’s fingers.

 

God, he wants to scream.

 

He nearly does, if not for the desperate scramble to clamp his own hand over his mouth, muffling the shriek that escapes when Sinbad shoves in so hard, so deep that his eyes roll back and his legs fall open all over again. Apparently, he's unable to be anything but a harlot splayed beneath the man, subject to the demanding shove and press of his hips, the hot, slick slide of his cock, and Ja'far, for once, finds the thought alluring rather than annoying, especially when Sinbad's cock dragging, sliding over that spot inside of him is so much _better_ than just his fingers. 

 

At some point, Ja'far's other hand grabs for Sinbad's hair, rakes down his back and scratches and claws, the only thing he's able _to_ do when the rest of his body is so focused on wriggling down, helpless to do anything but grind and squirm on Sinbad's cock.

 

The bite of fire down Sinbad’s back, the welts left by Ja’far’s nails, courses through him like the strongest wine, washing away any last lingering urges to be _gentle_ , to be anything other than a raw creature of _need_. His fingers dig into soft flesh, probably bruising as he jerks Ja’far’s hips down into every fierce thrust. His hair comes unbound at some point and spills over both of them, and even in the dim flicker of the bonfire through their tent wall Sinbad can see the flush on Ja’far’s cheeks.

 

He wrenches Ja’far’s hand away from his mouth, replacing it with his lips in a bruising kiss, biting, making savage, wild noises, a man possessed more with every brutal thrust.

 

Their kiss does little to muffle the noises wrenched from his throat--breathless groans, hitching, desperate little keens and whimpers as Ja'far feels all the more like he's going _mad_. His body aches, trembles, with little grounding to be found no matter how he clings to Sinbad's back, his moans cracking into sobs and then broken, rough-edged gasps. 

 

Ja'far's hips buck up, his cock grinding into the hard, flat plane of Sinbad's belly, and that's the last of his self-control stripped away before he comes with a mindless, sobbing groan, hands fisted into Sinbad's hair to keep him _down_ , to keep kissing him with sloppy, insistent bites and sucks, no matter how Ja'far can barely breathe and how his head spins while he _crumples_ beneath him.

 

The last thing Sinbad notices is that Ja’far is coming, writhing under him, _clutching_ at him, and _kissing_ him, grabby and needy and stripped naked in every way. A surge of something like triumph courses through Sinbad-- _I did it, he loves it, he’s coming on my cock like a harlot and loving it_ \--and he loses himself, back arched in a tight bow as he slams in so hard he’s sure he’ll break something. 

 

The first thought that echoes dimly in his empty mind once he comes back to himself is _roll over, he’s a little thing, you’ll crush him_. It’s a sensible enough thought, and Sinbad obeys, rolling to the side enough to bury his face in sweaty, moonlight-pale hair. “Thank you,” he mumbles sleepily.

 

Ja'far manages an unintelligible noise, breathless and hoarse, and turns his head aside to butt it against Sinbad's before _slowly_ twisting to curl up into a ball. _Hate your stupid ideas, hate that costume, don't wanna wear it again, I could kill you--_

 

_But this was good though._

 

Hopefully he'll be able to keep that in mind in the morning, when he wakes up sore and thoroughly bruised.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s _over_. 

 

The momentary surge of elation, of triumph and accomplishment, is as heady as any honeyed wine. It transcends the weariness of Sinbad’s limbs, of the warning throb in the back of his head that warns him he’s overexerted himself, and leaves him grinning too-wide, maybe a little too much swagger in his step as he makes his way up the long stone stairs. 

 

It’s tempting-- _definitely_ tempting to just collapse into the nearby shade of an oasis and sleep off the drain to his systems. His hand flexes, still stinging from the dungeon’s last attack, the feeling slowly coming back in a wave of pins and needles. _They’re learning_ , he thinks with a wince. That, or he’s getting close to the limit of even his own power, that he’d once considered so inexhaustible.

 

Then again, it’s easy to forget, after now six dungeons falling under his wit and skills, just how difficult it had been that long-ago first time.

 

He’s pretty sure there was a girl back in town who’d batted dark lashes at him, urging him that if he were really the dungeon-master he’d claimed to be, he could surely go out and _prove_ it. There’s a bejeweled medallion in his pocket now, for just such an occasion, and this is a perfect time to go there, to get roaringly drunk in a local tavern, to tell everyone of…

 

Well, perhaps five minutes from now, when he’s not _quite_ so tired, will be a better time, he thinks with a chuckle at himself, flopping down underneath the largest, shadiest palm tree. Just five minutes.

 

Probably, he should wait.

 

Judal still tells himself that now, even when he really, honestly has no desire to, especially when this man is just _asking_ for it. Who the hell dozes underneath a tree in broad sunset, anyway, especially without anyone else around to guard their belongings? Even Judal isn't that stupid--if he's going to take a nap, it's in midair or behind a shut door and away from any prying hands, at the very least--

 

Ah, but that's not the point. He's _felt_ this man for miles and days and against all protests (and orders, really), he's here because he can't _help_ but be curious. With the figurative slam of the dungeon shut and locked at this man's heels, Judal knows he's made a good choice, and really, laughing in everyone's faces that doubted him will be fun later.

 

The burn of hot sand never makes it to his feet, not when he lingers just half a stride behind the man's dozing form, and Judal tilts his head as he leans in close, lifting a hand to keep the fall of his heavy braid from falling forward and thumping against a broad shoulder. "For someone so powerful, you're _awfully_ oblivious."

 

If he’s going to wake up, Sinbad thinks with tired resignation, it might as well be to the dulcet tones of someone lovely leaning over him. For a second, he’s certain it’s a mirage; he’s been out in the sun long enough, and it would hardly be the first time. 

 

But the figure leaning over him isn’t the dark-eyed innocent goat girl he tends to hallucinate, so he lets his eyes flutter open, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I’ve been called worse, by uglier people. What are you doing so far out here, pretty thief? If you’re here for the dungeon, sorry to say you’re wasting your time.”

 

"I'm no thief!" It's far less incredulous and far more exasperated, and complete with the wrinkle of his nose, has all the marks of annoyance that this man doesn't know who he _is_. Judal's feet actually touching ground within the palm tree's shadow is a thing easy enough to miss with the ease that he sets himself down, and he scowls, arms folding over the draping folds of linen covering a good portion of his form. "So you definitely _are_ the one that conquered the dungeon. I can tell, you know." And he sounds damned proud of it.

 

Oh, this one is _strong_. 

 

It would take an idiot--or someone untrained, unwary, uneducated--to miss the power that spills from this one, a heady surge of _look at me, I can do it, didn’t I tell you I was strong_. Maybe Sinbad’s projecting just a bit, but the kid isn’t even trying to hide it--if anything, she’s letting it spill out, with the desperate desire to be noticed.

 

Ever wary for a hidden dagger--it’s pathetic, how many have thought that bringing back the head of a dungeon-master will be easier and just as impressive as conquering the dungeon itself--Sinbad sits up, propping his back against the palm tree, resting his head back on folded hands. “So you can. And you’ve got more than a sneeze worth, haven’t you?”

 

The scowl quickly shifts to a sort of frustrated pout as Judal leans forward, not bothering to stop the heavy fall of his braid this time from falling straight over his shoulder and thwacking Sinbad in the face. "You still don't know who I am, do you? And here they said people would _know_. Or at least, candidates would. What good are you, then?" 

 

Well. Talk about a phrase that changes everything. Sinbad catches the heavy rope of hair between his fingers on the rebound, stopping it from hitting a second time, enjoying the curious coarse softness of it. “Maybe I was testing you. The other two I met have been a lot older and uglier. Do you expect me to believe this kind of good fortune without question?”

 

Oh. Well, that makes him feel a bit better. Judal's head cocks, the pout not quite dissipating as he reaches for his braid, giving it a little tug to free it from the man's touch. "You've already met the other two?" That could be annoying. What if they've already decided they _like_ him? It's not fair, considering he came all this way, and this one is _his_. "For the record, I'm better than them, so whatever they said, ignore it." 

 

Sinbad doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing, and he only refrains because this kid clearly takes herself so seriously. “Sure,” he agrees easily. “So, tell me, Magi. What is it that you had to come out to the middle of this wasteland and wake me up to tell me? Surely someone of your stature could have had me brought to your feet.”

 

Bad to say that he wasn't _supposed_ to come out here, and that undoubtedly, all of Al Sarmen is frothing at the mouth and looking for them as they speak. Judal bites his tongue for a moment as he straightens, huffing. "Maybe I wanted to come and see you for myself. What better way to give you a proper assessment? I can't exactly tell how good of a king you'll be hundreds of miles away, after all."

 

 _Nor can you tell who I am, apparently._ Sinbad stretches out, raising his eyebrows. “What kind of assessment did you have in mind? I can only aim to impress.”

 

"Well--"

 

Admittedly, he hasn't thought that far ahead.

 

"I've already given you one." Yeah, that'll do. "You really think I can't tell just on sight how strong you are? I've been waiting all day for you to come out of that dungeon, you know." Judal's hands slide to his hips as he sighs. "I will say you look longer than I expected…"

 

How old is this kid, twelve? Her voice says older, but her figure is slim and slight, from what he can see of it, and the hesitation in her voice speaks volumes. “And have you ever seen a man emerge from a dungeon completely unwounded before? Perfection takes time.”

 

"I don't sit around waiting for just _anyone_ to come out of dungeons, so how would I know that?!" The scowl is back, and Judal's hands fist against his hips. "Maybe you're unwounded, but you're exhausted, aren't you? Maybe this was a waste, if you had to put _that_ much effort into a dungeon like this. The Kou Empire has a prince that's captured _two_ dungeons so far, you know."

 

Sinbad raises his eyebrows, letting a low whistle escape from between his lips. “ _Two_ dungeons? That man must be fierce indeed.” 

 

“But not,” he adds, sitting up far enough to meet the Magi’s eyes, “I think, worthy of you. Should you set me some task to see just how _exhausted_ I truly am, Great Magi?”

 

Judal's mouth twists. It's _really_ troublesome how this man keeps--just-- _not_ outright agreeing with him, or pushing for things. "You seem pretty confident already," he begrudgingly points out. "What makes you _think_ you're so _worthy?_ Other than being strong enough that I can feel you from miles away--that's kinda stupid, though, isn't it? Kouen's a lot more subtle."

 

 _Kouen, hmm? So she knows a lot more about him than that he’s captured two dungeons. They’ve met, or at least been in close proximity._ “Never said I was so worthy, only asked you to judge me. Don’t misunderstand, either. Anyone who can find me by my power, friend or foe...that’s a person I want to meet.”

 

Normally, it would be no contest--play with him a bit, see exactly how well he stands up to a _magi's_ ability--

 

But that will just draw Al Sarmen here faster, and Judal's enjoying a bit of time without. 

 

Then, a simple enough solution occurs to him, and he leans forward smugly. "Well, then. If that's the case, how many dungeons have _you_ conquered?" 

 

There’s no doubt in Sinbad’s mind that the kid has no idea who he is. Maybe this way, he’ll have a chance to find out some more about the enigmatic person leering over him, even as he reaches out to tug on that long thick mass of hair again. “This was my second. I think I’m getting better.” _Can you tell if I'm lying, Magi?_

 

Judal frowns, disappointment welling up before he can stop it. Really, coming out all this way for just that? He could have stuck with Kouen, and his annoying penchant for not getting the head with an errant peach but catching it instead. _Boring._

 

He didn't think he was _that_ far off-base, either. 

 

Impulse brings him to reach out, slim fingers snatching the man's hand clear off of his braid and that _touch_ brings him to beam because he can feel that much more clearly, and leaves him intensely satisfied that he was right all along. "You're _lying._ You're stronger than that, how many is it really?"

 

Oh, that _is_ a nice surprise. And the girl’s touch is strong, if soft--pampered, surely, but not a weakling, nor a delicate indoor flower. That’s enough of an enticement for Sinbad to pull the girl down to his lap, leaning in with a grin. “If you’re so powerful, you tell _me_.”

 

The sudden tug is enough to throw him off-kilter, and Judal's flop down into the man's lap is less than graceful, never mind the instinctive little sputter of magic that wells beneath him to cushion his fall. Probably, like so many other things involving this, he should rethink it--especially getting comfortable where he's sprawled, and the fact that Sinbad is kind of pleasant to lie against, what with the solid bulk of muscle and all…

 

"Six," Judal says, eyes lidding as he looks up through his lashes, _trying_ for bored and not, well, _impressed_ , when he's actually a little too giddy. "That's… a lot."

 

Sinbad hadn’t thought that he’d be able to muster up _excited_ any time before a decent rest and food, let alone quite this level of interest. But the little flutter of the girl’s breath, the way her voice catches on the number, the way her lashes raise to reveal the most _interesting_ eyes…

 

“Well, I didn’t do them all at once.” He trails a finger over the girl’s hairline, down to her chin, her neck. “Why are you wearing so much, anyway? You must be burning up.”

 

This isn't _quite_ what he expected, but--

 

Ah, he wasn't thinking about the heat _before_ the man said that, or rather, before that single fingertip lit his skin on fire and made him _shiver_. "I'm--what's it matter? This is just what I wear when I go out…" Judal shifts as he sucks in a quick breath, pushing himself up as he rest a hand upon that hard, broad chest. "You never even asked my name," he breathes. "Disrespectful. They say there's no one even fit to eat at the same table as me, you know. You should address someone like that properly, even if you're so strong."

 

Ah, god, she’s young and sweet and feisty, even if it _does_ incite a low growl in his chest to match the dark, heated look in his eyes. “Is that what you think, pretty Magi? Are you content to let _them_ lock you away from the world before you’re old enough to taste of its...sweetness? I’m afraid I’m not the proper gentleman who locks his treasures in a vault where no one can ever see them.”

 

" _No one_ locks me up." The pout is immediate and deep, and Judal's fingers flex like claws against his chest. "I'm here, aren't I?" he prods, wriggling his way upright a bit further, grumbling low in his throat at how it takes effort to throw a leg properly over the man's thighs and straddle him for a proper glaring position. "And you don't have to be a proper gentleman," he adds on a purr, no matter how his frown still juts his lower lip out. " _Really_ , I just thought you'd like to know the name of the Magi that _favors_ you so. I think I know yours, I've heard stories, now that I think about it, so it's only fair." 

 

Sinbad is having a _very_ good day.

 

His hand still prickles a little when he rests it on the girl’s lean thigh, long fingers reaching more than halfway around, and leaning up until he’s bare inches from those intense, dancing red eyes. “If you know who I am, you’ll know I’m hardly a gentleman. But I would be honored if you were to grace me with your name, Fair One.”

 

Oh, this really is _nice_. Judal sort of wants to wriggle in closer, because what is self-control when there's someone warm and solid and _powerful_ \--and that alone is enough to be drunk on, because with such close proximity and even just this little bit of contact, he can feel _everything_. Better than Kouen, better than listening to Al Sarmen and _staying_ and not chasing this man down. "Judal," is the breathy sigh to follow. "And you're… um, it was Sin--something. Right? No one else has conquered so many dungeons." 

 

 _And they never will,_ Sinbad is smug enough to think, sliding his hand just a bit up the girl’s thigh, wrapping that long, thick braid around his other hand. “Sin is fine. The full name couldn’t compare to something like _Judal_ , anyway. It suits you.” Really, the fact that this pretty thing is a Magi is so much extra luck--he’d be beside himself with glee just to have stumbled upon someone so lovely after such a day, wriggling around on his lap and making him feel every inch invigorated.

 

Judal grins, as pleased with himself for remembering as he is the compliment, and it prompts him to squirm his way forward that much more, his arms draping their way around Sinbad's shoulders, clinging to his neck as he half-buries his face into the side of it, breath escaping as a hot, excited little exhale. "You're quite good with flattery, too, when you want to be. Don't worry, I like you; no need to lay it on so thick when I'm already thinking about keeping you." _Kouen would be_ so _jealous--but won't the majority of Al Sarmen be pleased to have someone that much stronger?_

 

Maybe a long time ago, Sinbad would have been wholly engrossed in the play of the girl’s muscles against his hand, the slender arms snaking around his shoulders, the smell of the girl’s hair so close, her breath against his neck. Now, his mind races, torn between pulling her closer, hand working up her waist, working under some of the drapey cloths, and what it’s going to mean for Sindria if the third Magi chooses him officially, giving him divine sanction to rule. It can only be for the best, right? That’s what the Magi are _for_ , isn’t it? His fingertips ghost across soft skin, and he leans in for a kiss, murmuring, “You may find me a bit wild for a kept beast,” before meeting her lips with his.

 

It's almost _overwhelming_ , the heady rush that follows that contact, and Judal knows he scrambles a bit to press up into the kiss, an eager, needy groan rumbling from his throat before he can even think to stop it. He doesn't even _want_ to. Even if he's no stranger to the thrum of energy, of magic, of _power_ , this is still something altogether different and god, it feels _good_. 

 

His fingers curl, scratching against Sinbad's neck before they fist properly into his hair, and Judal's lips part with another, hungry noise escaping him as he wriggles closer, pressing his chest flush with Sinbad's, and really, nothing sounds better than the man being as  less than gentlemanly as he claims right then.

 

Suddenly, Sinbad becomes very, _very_ aware that there’s something he’s failed to notice.

 

Unusual, because the thing he’s failed to notice is a thing absent, and all the more unusual that what’s absent is one of his favorite things of all--or rather, two of them, which should even now be pressed against his chest in a way he’s more than familiar with, and they certainly _aren’t_. 

 

Ah. Well. 

 

There’s no use being picky with the color of water in an oasis, and the boy is warm and wriggling on his lap, breathing words of magic and sighing very prettily through his nose, and really, that’s almost as good. The village girls will still be there tomorrow, still be curving and supple and soft tomorrow, and maybe it’s for the best that he won’t be showing any of them how hot his blood runs after a dungeon. 

 

He’s less cautious now as he plunders the boy’s mouth with his own, one hand snaking down to deftly pluck at the ends of fabric, unwrapping the Magi like his own well-earned gift.

 

Sinbad is right about one thing-- _now_ he's burning up, all too eager to wiggle his way free of confining, draping clothing, all the better to bear himself to the perusal of those calloused, strong hands that drag over his flesh. Judal pants against the other man's mouth, the rush of all of it enough to make him dizzy, but not enough to stop his own hands from wandering, pawing their way southward, and he sucks in a ragged breath through his nose as his palm drags along the hardening line of Sinbad's cock through fabric that is _really_ more troublesome than it's worth.

 

At least the boy Judal is no less pretty, no less lithe, and above all no less _willing_ than Sinbad had thought the girl Judal to be, and a great deal more eager and less shy than many of the real women he’s lain with. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, his teeth dragging over the young Magi’s lip, laying him onto his back as he tugs at the wrappings. “You don’t mind if I take you here under the stars for anyone to see, right?”

 

It should be answer enough with how Judal lurches upward, grabbing and clawing and _pulling_ , but there's no helping how his tongue moves, too. "Not as long as you do it again _properly_ later," he purrs, his thighs splaying wide at the press of Sinbad's hips above him. "On a _real_ bed, without sand in my hair--even if you aren't a gentleman, you can at least appreciate that, right?" 

 

God, Sinbad likes this one, probably more than he should. It has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a Magi--startling at that, but for once it’s easy to throw all that away until later, strangely easy to enjoy the press of a stiff hard cock against his own, easier still to shuck his clothes. A twist of his wrist and he’s dumping the boy down on his own clothing, wrapping that long, full braid around his hand five or six times, giving at least a marginal try at decorum. “How about I promise to brush all the sand out of your hair as well?” he asks, pressing a kiss under the boy’s ear, then sucking hard at the soft skin there.

 

Judal's mouth falls open, little more than a breathy moan escaping from how he shudders, the sort of loose, tugging pressure on his hair going straight from his scalp straight down to his cock and making him rut up all the more. "G-good," he manages, eyes fluttering, and he squirms, a hand fumbling between them to grab for Sinbad's cock again, panting at the heavy, thick weight of it in his hand, the throb of it when he squeezes. Every little touch is enough to make him _twitch_ , and damn, it's something he could get used to, bathing in what feels like a cloud of heated, thrumming strength--something he was _sure_ he had felt the best of before, and yet this doesn't even begin to compare. "Good. _God_ , you're big." There's nothing but shaky, eager anticipation there, especially when coupled with the stroke of his fingers, the insistent splay of his legs.

 

There was a time, years earlier, when Sinbad had been too big for the self-control he possessed, too strong to know his own power, to arrogant to respect its danger. Skill, and practice, and _life_ have beaten that out of him, leaving him chuckling down at the boy, spreading his legs with a shift of his hips, enjoying the slow drag of Judal’s fingers. “I have a feeling,” he murmurs against the shell of that delicate ear, “that you’re someone who can appreciate the way a big man feels inside.” It’s not much of a guess, not when Judal’s words are accompanied by a heady little shiver.

 

He _whines_ at that, a mindless little sound that's probably better fit for a whore in a brothel than a selector of kings, but _hell_ if Judal cares, especially when his fingers tighten and god, Sinbad just feels _good_ in his hand. "Come up here," he rasps, and he squirms, pushing himself up just slightly onto an elbow. "Wanna taste you first."

 

“You drive a hard bargain.” Sinbad shifts, resting his knees on either side of Judal’s shoulders, cupping his large hands behind the boy’s head. He looks young like this, with his lips stained red from rough kisses, his hair sandy and tousled, his cheeks flushed with arousal, and Sinbad’s breath catches at the sight. He takes his cock in hand, leaning forward just enough to rest the tip at Judal’s lips. “Have a taste then, my pretty Magi.”

 

Judal doesn't need to be told, not with how his lips already eagerly part, his tongue flicks out to drag over the thick head of Sinbad's cock in a messy, wet slide to taste him with a groan in the back of his throat. He cranes his neck upward, the next, sloppy drag of his tongue leaving him panting as he draws back, lips slick and sticky when they part as he mouths down the length of him, eyes lidded and dark as he lets Sinbad's cock drag across his cheek, a sticky trail of fluid in its wake.

 

It's only then that he actually lurches up enough to take the man into his mouth, lips stretched wide and eyes rolling into the back of his head as Judal swallows the first few inches of him, the heady, musky taste on his tongue enough to make him _squirm_ , enough to make him flush that much hotter, his breath escaping hot and ragged through his nose.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Sinbad doesn’t bother stifling a groan as the boy works him beautifully, sinfully over with his lips, panting and moaning and whining like a bitch in heat, every part of him writhing with the _want_ of his cock, and god it makes him so much harder. He helps, supporting Judal’s head and neck, tugging him down a bit, breathing slow and heated, “You really love that taste, don’t you?”

 

He reaches a hand back behind himself, sliding down a perfectly toned abdomen to palm Judal’s cock, wrapping it up in one big hand. “Feels like you love it. Feels like you could spill on the sand just from having me in your mouth, lovely Judal.”

 

It's true, and there's no denying it from the way his hips twitch up, rocking mindlessly into Sinbad's hand as his eyes briefly squeeze shut, his chest heaves, and god, he really could, just from Sinbad in his mouth and stuffing his throat _full_. Judal lurches up, swallowing hard as he eagerly takes _more_ of that big cock down his throat, his jaw spasming from the ache of it, lips slick and shiny with his own drool, making the slide of his mouth that much slicker, wetter as he works as much of Sinbad as he can.

 

He doesn't _want_ to stop. He wants Sinbad in his mouth, making his eyes tear up when he takes just a bit too much, making his skin flush too-hot and his lips sore and all the more bruised, but he wants the man _in him_ all the more, and so he pulls back with a slick pop, tongue flicking out as he pants raggedly, licking at his lips and looking up at Sinbad through his lashes, openly pleading. "In me," he breathes, voice hoarse, "n-now, or I'm--"

 

A frustrated little noise wells up in Sinbad’s throat, but he tamps it down. “Next time,” he murmurs, rubbing a thumb over Judal’s swollen, sticky lips, “I won’t stop until you’re drinking me down, and I can see my seed dripping from your lips.”

 

The mental image is almost more powerful than his _need_ , and it’s a long few seconds before he masters the urge to just hold the boy down and rut shamelessly against his face. He pauses just long enough to grab a pair of small jars from one of his bags, kneeling in front of Judal. “Aloe or sesame oil?”

 

Judal _nearly_ puts a foot through Sinbad's chest in frustration for him to _hurry up_ , though the shakiness of his limbs, the goddamned urge to simply writhe like a cat in heat is too strong for him to bother. "Aloe's fine," he mumbles, face hot because what does it even _matter_ , just--he huffs out a hot breath of air, letting his head fall back even as his knees fall open and his fingers twitch with the urge to read down and touch himself. "Next time, you can _use me_ as a proper king should."

 

“Ah, but I’m not a proper king.” Sinbad slicks up his hand, slicks up his cock, and kneels once again over Judal, spreading the boy’s legs as he slides between them. His cock slides up and down the cleft of Judal’s ass, firm and tight and pert enough to help Sinbad forget that there’s nothing soft to bury his face in while he does this. “I’ll use you far, _far_ better than any king,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. There’s no helping the raw _need_ in him, and the boy’s just as bad, squirming and wanting, and damned but there’s no reason to deny what they’re both burning for, Sinbad tells himself as he thrusts in, burying his cock to the hilt inside of the writhing boy.

 

There's no holding back the shriek that tears from his throat, the hot, ragged breaths to follow, nor the hitching little moans as he bucks up, his back arching and his thighs tremulously clamping to Sinbad's hips. Judal's nails are claws as they sink their way into the other man's upper arms, and _god_ , but his cock is hard between them, with just the upward lurch of his body bringing it to grind against Sinbad's hard stomach enough to make his vision blur and go white at the edges. It's all because of that hot, tense stretch of Sinbad's cock inside of him, making him feel so _overfull_ that it aches, his teeth worrying into his own lower lip at that tight, tight stretch that Judal finds himself reminded of with every  heaving breath into his lungs.

 

That shriek is good, and Judal’s fingers clawing into him are good, and that pretty cock hard against his stomach is good, but nothing is as good as the boy feels, tight as hell and squeezing his cock so perfectly it’s driving him towards insanity as much as it is orgasm. There’s no care for what kind of magic Judal has, what kind of power he can promise, when all Sinbad can think about is the wild, _needy_ look in those desperate red eyes. 

 

It’s been a long time since he’s lost himself like _this_ with anyone, longer still since he’s done it with a boy, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. Even in his reckless abandon, his hands are strong and sure on the boy’s hips, not painfully cruel. Even when all he sees are white and red bursts of light, he kisses the boy like something precious, something to be cherished. Every savagely hard slap of his hips is no harder than the boy can take, despite the power in Sinbad’s muscles. “No proper king would fuck you like this,” he hisses against Judal’s lips, the fancy speech of a noble fallen away with his self-control. “No one else will _ever_ fuck you like this.”

 

God, Judal believes it.

 

There's _nothing_ that's felt this good that he can recall in recent memory, nothing in memories longer and more distant than that, and so all he can do is moan, nodding in mindless, helpless agreement, his vision blurring with each hard thrust that stuffs him full, stretches him wide, leaves him _squirming_ with each inch of slick, hard cock pushing deep into him, and fuck, if that isn't good. It leaves him struggling for each shaky breath that he draws past his lips, gulping in Sinbad's own air as much as his own, with his nails clawing into the man's back, clinging to him with even the smallest slide of flesh against flesh and there's _no_ hope for keeping his voice down because it's good, just so stupidly, achingly good being spread open by this man--

 

No matter how he wants to wait, how good Judal thinks it would be to hold out a bit longer, he comes with a broken sound, shuddering, quivering with each spasm that rakes through him--and god help if it isn't even better like this, because what the _hell_ is self-control good for, anyway?

 

Sinbad pulls away long enough to watch Judal scream, that pretty face contorted in ecstasy so acute it’s obviously too much, every little spasm going straight to his cock still buried deep inside the boy. He pants, sweat beading on his shoulders from the effort of holding still, and waits until the boy has stopped shaking quite so much before sliding out just long enough to flip Judal over, guiding himself right back inside with a sigh. “Now,” he murmurs, with a soft bite to the boy’s shoulder, “you’re going to know what it means to be taken by a king.”

 

He takes his time, now. There’s time to spare, and the rippling intensity of their coupling sets him all the more aflame with every tight thrust, every minuscule bit of friction as he moves inexorably within the lithe little body wholly covered by his own.

 

Oh god, it's just not _fair_.

 

Judal _moans_ as he buries his face down into the pile of his own clothing, breath hiccuping with each deep slide of Sinbad's cock inside of him. If _this_ is what it means to be taken by a king--then more of it, and more often, that's what he needs, or so says his hazy mind as he simply bites down into fabric and shudders hard, spent body twitching, trembling too-eagerly and too-soon. Like this, with his mind out of focus, his nerves firing in what feels like a dozen different directions, he feels _Sinbad's_ strength that much more acutely and--that, that above all things, is too much, no matter how he just wants to wallow in it. 

 

It’s easy to grab that luxurious length of hair, to tug on it just to watch the boy’s back bow in a heady, needing arch. And unless Sinbad’s mistaken (he isn’t), Judal likes the way it feels, the slow yank on his head coupled with the patient, deliberate movement of Sinbad’s cock deep inside him. 

 

The best is when Judal just whimpers in his arms, when he bites down on his own wrappings, obviously overwhelmed, and as thoroughly conquered as any dungeon under the power Sinbad wields. One hand snakes up that toned belly to play with the boy’s nipples, no matter that they’re not attached to the soft, yielding flesh he’s so used to, and even that change, tonight, makes his body sing. “Give yourself to me,” he whispers, hips slapping hard against Judal’s as he lunges forward. “Or I’ll just make you mine.”

 

The strangled whimper that leaves his throat is all Judal can manage, broken and breathless as he twists within Sinbad's hold. Just the pull and scrape of his fingertips over his nipples--something he doesn't even normally _like_ , but to hell with it, right now he does, likes _everything_ Sinbad does to him, never mind that it's too much and makes his vision blur all over again with each hot slide of his cock inside of him or squeeze and pinch of his fingers and tug on his hair--

 

"I-I'm--" Another, hard shudder cuts him off, and it's his own doing this time as he wriggles, writhes his way back onto Sinbad's cock. "Whatever you want, I--"

 

Truly, Destiny is a marvelous strange beast. Never in a year’s worth of Sundays would Sinbad have thought to pluck a lovely boy when there were girls plenty, but oh, just now he could kick himself for it. The way Judal wriggles against him is the sweetest surrender, something willingly given even as it’s demanded. 

 

Sinbad’s mouth is hot on Judal’s neck as he marks the boy, claims him under the stars, and finally amid a series of panting, ragged thrusts, falls into his own surrender somewhere deep inside Judal’s body. 

 

His chest is heaving, and his body is weary like it hadn’t been after conquering this dungeon, as he holds the boy close even as he floods him. “Now,” he whispers, arms clenching tight, his voice catching as he holds Judal tighter, “you have blessed me, lovely Magi.”

 

Judal finds himself biting into fabric again, his eyes squeezing tightly shut and it's nearly enough for him to lose himself again, just feeling Sinbad spill inside of him, hot and slick and so deep that another, achingly long tremble rakes down his spine. "You're really…" The train of thought leaves him quickly, and it's with a groan that he buries his face, too spent to _think_. What has he even been missing _out on?_

 

“I know,” Sinbad says with a yawn, rolling onto his back, tugging Judal against his side. “I’ve been told, I’m sure. If you’re sleepy, you can make me a king in the morning.” That’s kingly generosity, surely. He still can’t help smiling as he winds Judal’s hair between his fingers, brushing the end of it over the boy’s chest and stomach.

 

A low, rumbling growl follows, no matter how Judal nestles up against him with what little strength he has left. "Thinking so highly of yourself," is the continued, sleepy grumble. "I haven't seen a real bed from you yet. Unacceptable."

 

“Not sure where you expect me to pull one from,” Sinbad starts to say, but trails off into a contented little mumble, throwing an arm around the boy. This, surely, is something worth getting used to.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Something's wrong. 

 

Ja'far knows it, by the lagging expanse of time that passes--too long for Sinbad, of all people, especially after the dungeon's silhouette fades in the sky and signals his success. Ja'far wishes, perhaps a little too desperately, that he had been at the man's side throughout the ordeal, but even in foreign countries and cities, there is work to be done--if Sinbad isn't pulling the strings of fledgling countries, then it is Ja'far that has to, after all. 

 

It doesn't stop him from stealing away close to dawn, however, because the unease simply won't go away. 

 

He's not wrong. He's never wrong, not when it comes to Sinbad, and he doesn't take the time to hesitate or ask permission to become involved in the man's fight. There are a dozen 'bodies' in various states of deterioration strewn about the desert sand, the heavy swarm of black rukh so thick that even he can see it, and even more still for him to sink his blades into, picking stragglers off two at a time. 

 

By the end of it, Ja'far is as blood-spattered as Sinbad, though not a single drop of it is his. 

 

~

 

Adrenaline, too, is a useful tool, especially when it comes to picking up an (eventually) unconscious man twice one's size and hauling them back into town at the crack of dawn. 

 

Ja'far's heart is still racing, blood pounding in his ears no matter how he tries to calm himself and dress Sinbad's wounds without his hands shaking too badly. He has to wonder if Sinbad knows the _name_ of what he had been facing, if he knows exactly how dire his situation had been--and at that, _why_ they were there, why they chose to target Sinbad at that time and in such numbers? If the dungeon had been so very important to them, wouldn't it have been guarded to the point entry was impossible? Why not that, instead of letting Sinbad conquer it? 

 

Lingering worry makes him think _they finally found me, they're here for me, they know Sinbad has been kind to me all of these years_ \--but, logically, it can't be that, because he's nothing to them. It's something far more than that, though _what_ is only something he can guess until Sinbad wakes. 

 

In the meantime, after he's made _sure_ Sin will be fine, that he's patched up accordingly and with Masrur lingering at the bedroom door as a lookout, Ja'far sags to his knees at Sinbad's bedside, folding his arms upon the edge of the bed and dropping his head upon them. He can sleep like this, maybe with one eye open--just in case some of them come back. 

 

Sinbad wakes sometime near dawn. He’s not terribly _happy_ about it, with the way every part of him aches, some parts transcending that and going straight into agony, but he wakes.

 

Quiet and still, that’s the way when he wakes somewhere unfamiliar. He keeps his breathing even as if in sleep, letting his eyes slit slightly open to take in his surroundings. A bed, that’s certain. In a room, which is probably for the best. And--ah, good, Ja’far is with him, and his wrists are unbound. This is no prison then, in his own country or any other.

 

The smell of blood is heavy in his nose, and when he breathes in his air is constricted--bandages, not bonds. He’s been unconscious for some time, then, after that Magi--

 

The growl that passes between his lips in unintentional, and he stifles it, though probably too late to not wake Ja’far. Ah, well, might as well make the best of the situation, so he twitches his fingers over to play weakly with the young man’s hair. “How long?” he rasps.

 

Ja'far jerks, the touch rousing him quickly from the light sleep he's allowed himself to drift off into. In an instant, he shifts, stretching up from his knees to better lean over the bed, a frown on his lips as he takes in how _pale_ Sinbad is. "… Too long," he quietly scolds, honestly having lost track of time himself, and he covers that up by reaching to the bedside table for the jug of water. "You've certainly done yourself in this time." Somehow, he keeps his hands from shaking as he pours a cup, and scoots further onto the bed to gently slide a hand behind his head and lift it enough for Sinbad to drink. 

 

The water falls onto Sinbad’s lips as if onto a desert, and he quenches his thirst deeply before he rests his head back onto Ja’far’s hand. Annoying, that he’s reduced to being such an _invalid_ , courtesy of those he despises so damned much. “Yeah. I had help.”

 

"I noticed." Ja'far twists around to set the cup down, purposefully not removing his hand if Sinbad wants to rest upon it so badly. "What happened?" _What did you do?_ is the far more unkind question, though implied all the same.

 

One eye opens, reproachfully glaring at Ja’far. “It wasn’t my fault, if that’s what you’re asking. They attacked me in my sleep.” He closes the eye again, leaning back with a sigh. “You know who.” Nothing they’ve ever spoken about, but he’s always known who sent the boy with the intense eyes to jump him in the dark, all those years ago.

 

"… I do." His fingers curl, threading tighter into Sinbad's hair. "Was it the dungeon they wanted? Were they _angry?_ They don't just… do things like this indiscriminately." 

 

At that, Sinbad has to admit a rueful grin. He tries to stretch out, only to wince as something flames with pain in his side. “Doubtless they didn’t like that much, but I’d bet they were more concerned that I was playing with their Magi, if that’s who the child was.”

 

Ja'far stares at him, jaw suddenly slack with open shock. "You… wait, _what?_ " he snaps, abruptly pulling his hand away. "You're telling me you met Al-Sarmen's Magi?" 

 

Sinbad lets out a grunt as his head hits the bed. “That’s not exactly how he introduced himself, but he did claim the dungeon as his work, yes.”

 

"And you believed him," Ja'far flatly intones. "Just because he said so." 

 

“With an aura like that?” Sinbad shrugs, and _damn it_ , that hurts too. “He had to be a Magi, and I’ve met the others.”

 

"So you just--" Ja'far wants to strangle him. Instead, he rises with a huff, so sharply that the sash of his tunic snaps behind him. "So you just decided it would be a good idea to bed Al-Sarmen's Magi in the middle of the desert after you're exhausted from conquering a dungeon," he bites out as he snatches a fresh bundle of bandages from his bag and strides back over, glowering down at the other man. " _Congratulations_ , by the way." 

 

If Sinbad had the power to move away at the moment, he’d have done it. As it is, he edges slightly to the side, a wary look on his face. “It wasn’t _like_ that,” he protests, the familiar words on his lips. “I was innocently sleeping! And then I woke up to someone pretty sitting on my chest and telling me I’m really strong and fit to be a king and would you _please_ not look at me that way?”

 

Ja'far's blood runs cold. "Did you accept his offer?" Sinbad doesn't _feel_ any different, but then again, what would Ja'far know? He's never been around a candidate for king, let alone someone chosen by a Magi. His fingers twitch, and one of his blades flips into his grasp. "Don't move," is his flat addition before he slices through the already bloody bandages binding Sinbad's side in order to pull them away and replace them. "You're still not well. Idiot." 

 

Sinbad holds very, very still when Ja’far moves. True, Ja’far’s good enough to slice the wings off a fly--when he wants to be. If not, well, every human slips, and he can hardly be blamed for that, can he? “Ah, no. She didn’t--I mean, _he_ didn’t really, uh, get that far.”

 

Relief immediately courses through him. "Good. Wait--no, don't phrase it like that," he growls, barely stopping himself from yanking too hard on Sinbad's bandages. No, instead, he's gentle, no matter how his fingers still want to tremble. "You wouldn't have accepted, I _hope_."

 

“Mmm? Why would you hope that?” Not that he _would_ have, of course. Maybe. It’s entirely possible that he would have turned the girl down. _Boy_ , damn it, he’s _got_ to stop doing that.

 

Ja'far looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "He's Al-Sarmen's Magi," is the flat retort, and all right, perhaps he's a little less than gentle when it comes to reaching for the basin he's set on the floor and wringing out a cloth to clean Sinbad's wounds. 

 

“Well, I didn’t _know_ that, did I?” Sinbad asks with a wince. “Who says there have to be only three, hmm? I was tired. Then those bastards jumped me in my sleep.”

 

"What if he called them?" Ja'far coolly proposes. "He wasn't exactly there when you woke, was he?" 

 

Sinbad rolls his eyes with a groan. “Of _course_ he called them. He’s Al-Sarmen’s _Magi_. I’m only saying I didn’t know that _before_ I bedded him.”

 

" _Normally_ , you have a few more sensibilities when it comes to bed partners." That's not saying much, but all the same. Ja'far snorts, and extends his hand. "You need to sit up for this, let me help you." 

 

It’s a weary, pained smile that Sinbad gives him, but a smile nonetheless. He takes the proffered hand, groaning at the stretch in his wounds as he sits up. “I wasn’t thinking,” he admits quietly, staring down at his feet, seeing not bandages and blankets but moonlight and sand, hearing the high, breathy noises of someone unaccustomed to feeling pleasure. “He’s young. And I _don’t_ think he’s one of them, not yet. Not truly. He was too green for that.”

 

Ja'far's lips purse at that, even as he scrubs his hands clean before picking through the hastily procured herbs he'd beat down the door for from the town's medicine woman at the crack of dawn. _Honestly_ , the things he did for this man. "Al-Sarmen has had him for as long as I can remember." Carefully, he repacks the deep gash along Sinbad's side--the worst of his injuries by far, thankfully--before stretching out a length of fresh bandages and starting to rewrap the wound. "I never saw him, of course. Only the highest officials were allowed in his presence. But the point is--someone that has been with Al-Sarmen for _that_ long… is certainly one of them." 

 

The corner of Sinbad’s lip turns up, even as he hisses out a breath at Ja’far’s nimble fingers in the wound on his side. “Ahh--I did myself a great service, the day I found you. And I’ll not contest your opinion, you know of them far better than I. I just...he’s so _young_ , really a child still. Have they had him from infancy? I don’t think of Al-Sarmen being filthy with wetnurses.”

 

"… You'd be surprised at what they can procure as needed." Ja'far braces one hand against Sinbad's shoulder to save the man some of the shock of having the bandages yanked tighter and promptly pinned into place. "As far as I know, they've had him since before he could talk. You can lie back down, and this time, don't move around so much." 

 

Sinbad lays back down, trying not to wince too hard. Ja’far is being gentle, for Ja’far. “Ah, well. At least now we know the enemy, hmm?” It still troubles him, the look in the boy’s eyes, as if he’d never expected to find anyone in the world who delighted him so--the feel of his lips, the way his fingers had threaded between his own...

 

"Sin." It's a very, very flat intonation, with which he speaks. "You can't keep that one." 

 

Sinbad blinks. Had he been so obvious? “I did call him the enemy, didn’t I?”

 

"You get a look on your face whenever you _want_ something," Ja'far curtly replies, leaning forward after him to plant a hand onto the bed as he leans close, eyes narrow. "You _can't_ keep him--assuming he ever shows up again, anyway. Accepting his offer is walking into Al-Sarmen's grasp outright." 

 

This, Sinbad thinks, slightly grumpy, is why he had so enjoyed running around the world _alone_ , all those years ago. Back then, no one had questioned his decisions. 

 

 _And you made a lot of terrible ones_ , a little voice points out. Strange how it sounds so much like Ja’far, even inside his own head. “I’m agreeing, aren’t I? You know how much I hate them.” _Even if I’ve never told you outright, you must know. You’re that sort of smart._

 

"And if he shows back up?" is the persistent retort. "What will you do?" 

 

“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be planning for that kind of thing?” Sinbad snaps. “He’s shown his face once, in the middle of a foreign desert, for all of an hour, after which he had me attacked by _dozens of men_. I hardly think he’s going to be banging down my door in Sindria.”

 

"He's a Magi, and he decided, for a moment, that he liked you," Ja'far points out, leaning away with a snort. "It's best to plan accordingly. So, what would you do?" 

 

Ignoring the pain that comes with the movement, Sinbad reaches out to grab Ja’far’s wrist. “What would you have me do?” he asks quietly, holding those oddly-colored eyes. “You’re my advisor. Advise me.”

 

"Turn him away." It's a simple, immediate response, and Ja'far slowly lifts his other hand to close it over Sinbad's. "Don't humor him. I don't care what he promises you, it isn't worth it, if Al-Sarmen is involved. I don't care how 'green' you think he is, either." 

 

“And if he gives it to the Emperor of Kou instead?” It’s not that he _wants_ the power of a king candidate, Sinbad tells himself. It’s only...best to explore every option. “One of his first words to me was about a Kou Prince who’s strong and worthy. Would it be worth the madness, to keep the power from falling into those hands? I ask you honestly, as my friend. I’m not looking for any answer.”

 

Ja'far exhales an even breath, shaking his head slowly side to side. "I don't think you understand what it would do to you, to have someone like that at your side," he quietly replies. "Sin, just… don't. If he chooses one of the Kou Princes, then so be it. It still isn't worth it." His fingers squeeze gently over Sinbad's hand. "I will give you all of my strength, no matter if it is a Magi that I have to face." 

 

Ah, well. With the gift of precious words such as those, there’s nothing left to say, is there? Slowly, trying not to hurt himself, Sinbad brings Ja’far’s fingers to his lips, brushing over them softly. “You are of greater worth to me than ten Magi,” he says quietly, holding Ja’far’s eyes. “And a creature of far greater rarity.”

 

"I told you not to move," Ja'far chides, though there's little real annoyance in his voice. At least Sinbad isn't moving in a way that will especially jar the worst of his injuries this time. His fingers curl slowly, and he leans forward, lips brushing against the other man's brow. "I will do my best to live up to such expectations, my king." 

 

Sinbad smiles, and it’s probably a bad thing that he’s coming to enjoy Ja’far’s gentle chiding. He squeezes the young man’s fingers, closing his eyes as he lets the pain wash over him, thinking done for the moment. “Stay by my side tonight? There’s room for two.”

 

 _It's day_ , Ja'far wants to correct him, but bites his tongue with a little sigh as he carefully shifts to slide onto the bed entirety. It isn't as if he's inclined to leave Sinbad's side right now anyway, not with the threat of Al-Sarmen possibly coming back. _I'm sorry you're in so much pain, I should have been there sooner._ "I'll stay." 

 

With Ja’far next to him, some of the aches ease somewhat, whether because of the warmth of his body or simply because he’s happier now. No matter the threats against moving, Sinbad manages to get an arm around Ja’far’s shoulders, and turns to press a kiss against the boy’s brow. “There. Now I’m protected against any villains.”

 

"Don't make light of it so easily," Ja'far murmurs, sighing and curling himself closer in an attempt to make sure Sinbad _moves_ less. "Behave yourself from now on, isn't it time we went home? This was your sixth dungeon." 

 

Sinbad lets out a sigh, settling easily down. It’s been a long while since Sindria has called him home with her siren song, but she makes herself heard now--the kind of place a rogue of a brigand and a former child killer can rule together, call _home_ together, and she’s waiting for them even now. “Maybe you’re right. Once I can move, eh? Then we’ll go home.”

 

"Swear it and I'll believe it," is the mutter to follow, and Ja'far carefully rests his cheek against the side of Sinbad's shoulder. "I'll carry you to Sindria myself right now, if you'd allow it." 

 

Sinbad hesitates, and that bothers him. It bothers him that he hesitates out of selfishness, wanting to run around and conquer the world one scrap of unclaimed land at a time rather than going back to his (mostly) rightful throne, and that he hesitates against advice he _knows_ to be true.

 

Maybe it really is time to grow up.

 

Surely, Ja’far won’t object to the curl of a single finger against his hair. “I promise. Once I’m able, we’ll walk home _together_. Save your strength for guarding my back on the road.”

 

There's relief in hearing that, even if he still doubts Sinbad's word, just a little bit. Ja'far doesn't doubt that if nothing _comes up_ , they'll head home in the next week or so, once Sinbad is well enough. If another dungeon appears, however… that's another story, and Ja'far knows, just _knows_ they will be chasing after it again, no matter the cost. 

 

"All right." His eyes lid, and he sighs, a soft nudge of his head against Sinbad's fingers following. "Once you're able."

 

~~

 

Sinbad feels the ache in his sleep.

 

Not the ache of his injuries; that’s faded to an ever-present, if obnoxious thing, a background to what his body does at all times over the last few days. No, the ache that wakes him is a far warmer, more pleasant thing, courtesy of having shifted in his sleep to curl around Ja’far’s lithe body.

 

Not the worst way to wake up, after all.

 

Sinbad’s lips curl into a little smile, and he moves forward just an inch to nuzzle into Ja’far’s hair, enjoying the slow press of his hips up against Ja’far’s backside. The boy is so warm, and feels so good, and really, when he wakes this hard from the smell of his friend, it’s hardly his _fault_ , is it? After all, he’s injured. He can hardly be expected to leave.

 

Waking is a slower, more languid thing when there are less threats to deal with and more Sinbad's simple curling about him, warm and solid and _alive_. There are moments when Ja'far's mind shifts slowly back towards the possibility of Sinbad being killed beneath the hands of Al-Sarmen, no matter how he tries not to dwell on past events that _didn't happen_. 

 

Lingering concern makes him more tolerant, at least, to the realization of how _hard_ Sinbad is behind him, and he muffles a sigh into the sheets. "Sin." It's a low, rumbling warning, just slightly put out but not an outright _quit it_ just yet.

 

“Mmm.” Sinbad doesn’t deign to say any more just now, not with how content he is like this. Ja’far smells like...well, like nothing, as usual, except a bit like _Sinbad_ now courtesy of long hours spent in his bed, in his arms, and time before that spent wrists-deep in Sinbad’s blood. 

 

Besides, what’s the harm, really? He rocks slowly against the sweet curve of soft flesh, eyes still closed, still hardly awake yet.

 

Normally, Ja'far would smack him.

 

He might even push Sinbad off the bed, or just get up and leave him there to deal with it himself. Right now, though, it's different. Sinbad is still in less than perfect shape, and Ja'far is still annoyingly worried, and it's not _so_ bad to put up with this if Sinbad is content and not in pain…

 

Not to mention the longer he feels Sinbad rub against him, the longer his own body seems inclined to stir, too.

 

Ja'far exhales a slow, faintly shaky breath, keeping his face half-buried into the sheets as he shifts back, just slightly. Just this once, he'll humor him. Just this once.

 

The smallest press of Ja’far back towards him is all Sinbad needs for permission, and a lazy grin stretches across his face. He slings an arm around Ja’far’s waist, being a little less shy, a little more obvious about the way he rocks forward, inhaling deeply at the crook of Ja’far’s neck. A slight shift, and he’s pressing into the cleft of Ja’far’s ass, feeling the firm curve even through the layers of fabric, and he sighs. He’s going to make quite a mess at this rate, but it’s gentle enough that he’ll be able to savor it for a while first.

 

Ja'far huffs into the sheets, heat spreading over his face as he wriggles. He's decided that  Sinbad feels _good_ like this, no matter how he's just a lecher after all--what if he had slept through this? Stupid question, Sin _still_ would have enjoyed himself thoroughly, judging by how hard he is, grinding into the curve of Ja'far's ass. _Shouldn't like that so much._

 

"… You're going to make a mess." Ja'far flushes hotter with the words, even as he squirms to reach a hand down, plucking at the fastenings of his own pants. "And I don't feel like washing our clothes this early, so--"

 

For just a moment, Sinbad considers pretending he’d been asleep, just to tease Ja’far about what a lewd person he is, molesting a sleeping man and waking him just to get undressed. Then again, he’s injured, and his chances of avoiding a smack after something like that would be pretty close to zero. 

 

Besides, it’s not every day that Ja’far is volunteering to take _his_ pants off. “I’ll try not to be too messy,” Sinbad murmurs instead, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Ja’far’s neck, easing himself out of his robes, his pants having gone missing some time during the night.

 

That's a lie. Ja'far snorts quietly all the same as he squirms his way out of his clothing--or at least, until his pants bunch low about his knees, and a careful kick leaves them scarcely clinging to an ankle as he shivers, the heat of Sinbad's body behind him that much more easily felt now. "Just… don't put it in," he lowly warns. Better to set boundaries now, lest Sin get too caught up in it all. It's one thing to be tolerant and even… maybe... enjoy that Sinbad is turned on just by being close to him--it's another thing to start the day off feeling like he's been eaten alive.

 

A slight prickle of disappointment goes through Sinbad at that, but he dismisses it. It would be churlish to balk at this much, and in some ways this is far more obscene, less an act of sex than an animalistic, grunting necessity. 

 

Which, he has to admit, sounds like fun.

 

He rubs up between the firm cheeks for a few minutes, a lazy, contented hum leaving his mouth at the way it gets slicker as time goes on, left in a sticky trail by the head of his cock. “You sure?” he murmurs in Ja’far’s ear, pressing the tip against that little hole before moving away.

 

A shudder rakes down his spine. In some ways, more enjoyable than having Sinbad inside of him is the _thought_ of it--and in this case, the tease of it, the drag of his hard, thick cock against him, and oh, skin against skin _is_ nicer. "I'm sure," Ja'far breathes, even as his hips twitch back, his eyes fluttering shut at the press of it against him. Obscene, all of it, and all the better for it. "It's good, just like this." 

 

“Even for you?”

 

One of the reasons Sinbad had been so hesitant, initially, to take a man to his bed, was the idea that such a person would demand reciprocation, equality in certain ways that Sinbad has never in his life felt drawn to give. Certainly it would do nothing for _him_ to have a man behind him rutting away on his skin, and he leans forward, sliding his hand down to curl around Ja’far’s cock. The angle shifts, and his own length slides down instead of up, pushing forward between Ja’far’s soft thighs, and Sinbad can’t help but groan at the feeling.

 

" _Yes_." Especially that--less Sinbad's hand, more the slide of his cock between his thighs that makes Ja'far shift to part them, just for a moment, all the better to let Sin sink between them. A groan of his own escapes, the slick slide of the other man's cock up against him making him squirm, bringing Ja'far's muscles to twitch and better squeeze his thighs around him. "Good?" Ja'far quietly asks, eyes lidded, skin flushed hot as he twists his head back briefly.

 

It takes a few long seconds before Sinbad even has the _air_ to say, “Y-yeah, good.” The press of hot, soft skin all around him, growing slicker with every slide of his cock, squeezing around him as Ja’far wriggles--it’s far better than good, and Sinbad keeps forgetting to keep his hand moving, so entranced is he by the feeling. “Any time,” he breathes, eyes sliding closed at the next long thrust, “you don’t want me inside, ah, this would be...more than fine.”

 

Ja'far's breath leaves him a fast, ragged exhale, and he glances down, biting his lip at he sight of Sinbad's cock thrusting long and hard between his thighs. It makes his toes curl, the drag of every inch of him against sensitive skin--rubbing up between his legs sometimes, even, and coupled with the squeeze and slide of Sinbad's hand--

 

Ah, god. Sin is turning him into a pervert. Ja'far buries his face down into the sheets as he pushes Sinbad's hand away, letting his own fingers curl around his cock. "I'll do it," he breathes, trembling at the slow drag of his own palm. "I--… just…  s-so you can grab me however you want, and fuck me." 

 

Sinbad had _planned_ on being gentle.

 

All right, he hadn’t exactly planned much at all beyond _Ja’far is warm and my cock is hard_ , but had he planned, it would have been with the intention of gentleness. Funny, how the slightest hint of _wanting_ from Ja’far is always enough to throw any of his plans out the window.

 

Sinbad lets out a ragged noise, enjoying the freedom to grab Ja’far’s hips and haul him back almost as much as he enjoys peering over the young man’s shoulder to watch him fisting his own cock. It’s the kind of thing that reminds him that Ja’far is as human as he is, and for some reason that always makes him _want_. “You--god, that’s gorgeous,” he rumbles in Ja’far’s ear, sliding up hard between his thighs. “Show me how you like it, there’s a good boy.”

 

The grab of Sinbad's fingers, hard and unyielding and _bruising_ his hips, makes his cock that much harder, and Ja'far nearly laughs at himself. _I'm a masochist, too_ , he thinks, but there's little care in that thought as his fingers squeeze tighter around his own cock, stroking hard and making his own breath sharply hitch as Sinbad slides against him. It's not just the hot, hard slide of his cock between his thighs, though that's nice, really nice, and he can't help but keep his muscles bunched tight, squeezing around every thick inch of him--no, it's the curl of Sinbad's body around him, too, so much larger than he, unyielding and _warm_ and god, Ja'far can't smell anything but _Sin_ , strong and masculine and _aroused_.

 

"… You first." His throat bobs in a hard swallow. "I never… get to see you come first." _I want to watch, no matter if it's messy or I'll hate changing the sheets here later, I still want to see it_ \--

 

With anyone else, it wouldn’t arouse Sinbad so much to hear words like that, to think that he’s just _using_ the person in his arms, just a warm body to get off with, to get off _on_. 

 

With anyone else, it would be some degree of true.

 

With Ja’far it just makes him harder, and Sinbad’s breath hitches as his hips snap forward, a low groan welling in his throat as he drags Ja’far back by the hips into every thrust. “Look down, then,” he rasps, and his teeth sink in to the soft skin of Ja’far’s neck as he comes, spilling white and slick and hot over the front of Ja’far’s thighs, over his cock, over one pale hand, pulse pounding in his ears.

 

It's too _much_ to watch. 

 

Ja'far's breath stutters, a groan choked into the back of his throat at the sight--Sinbad, dripping over his thighs, smearing his skin hot and slick and messy, and god, if that doesn't make his own cock jerk up harder into his hand, _nothing_ does. That's all it takes; that, and a last, hard squeeze of his fingers before he's coming, gasping as he spills over his own fist, curling up as he does and shivering, squirming back against Sinbad with a relieved little moan to follow.

 

Now that Sinbad’s body isn’t burning with desire, it starts to ache again, in all the places Ja’far had carefully rebound the day before. He ignores that, tightening his arm around Ja’far’s waist, pulling him back with a kiss to his ear. “Didn’t know you liked watching so much.”

 

Likewise, now that his body isn't opting to be so pliant to Sinbad's whims, Ja'far thinks exactly of how hot and sweaty and _sticky_ he is--that they both are--and he groans, tilting his head back to glower up at Sinbad through his mussed bangs. "I don't exactly make it a _pastime_. I--" He pauses, frowning. "You didn't irritate your wounds too much, did you?" 

 

Already, it begins. Sinbad presses a firm kiss to Ja’far’s cheek, murmuring, “I’m fine, I promise. Would it kill you to enjoy the afterglow for a minute?"

 

"It's--" _Hot and sticky and I want a bath--_

 

Ja'far sighs, shutting his eyes as he nevertheless sinks back again--just for the moment, only the moment. Sinbad is comfortable as always to curl up against, at least. "As long as you're fine."

 

Sinbad grins, burying his face in soft, pale hair. “As long as I’m fine, you’re happy? Well as long as you’re with me, I’m fine.”

 

"So that explains how you nearly died," Ja'far flatly replies, even as his lips twitch upward, just a bit. "If you're feeling this well, then we should start thinking about traveling again." 

 

 _Travel_. It’s a pretty word, a word to describe an activity he _loves_ , but Ja’far is using it to mean _go home_ , something a bit less exciting. Then again, he did promise, after all. And there aren’t any dungeons nearby in the first place. He rests his head down against the pillow, thinking. “Which road are you thinking, North or South?”

 

"If we head North, we'll be dealing with the weather… South, and there's a possibility of dealing with the Kou Empire." Ja'far sighs, stretching out a bit with a grimace, and fumbling for the bedside table to grab a cloth and at least wipe his legs clean. "Considering your most recent fight, I'm more inclined to deal with weather."

 

Sinbad hisses out a breath as the movement jars one of his wounds, the nasty deep one in his side that he’s been trying to ignore. “I’d agree with you if the season weren’t turning. This time of year, the Emperor’s lap is a safer place to be than some of those roads up north.”

 

"Sorry, sorry," Ja'far mutters immediately, stilling his attempts and deciding to just deal with being sticky until he can get up properly and bathe. "If you hadn't mentioned that Al-Sarmen's Magi knew of one of the Kou princes… I would agree as well. Do you want to deal with Al-Sarmen _and_ Kou?"

 

Sinbad scowls at the prospect. None of that is terribly appealing, and he _hates_ having no good choices. “North, then, and we’ll just brave the weather. I’m fine, by the way,” he adds, nudging his forehead against Ja’far’s neck. “Get up and clean, you must be going mad.”

 

Ja'far moves in an instant, snatching up the cloth first and foremost to wipe himself clean after throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "If you want--" And he hates even proposing this, but with no good options and Sinbad's own, obvious lack of desire to return home _just yet_ … "We can wait a few more months. Perhaps by then… the situation within Kou will not be so tense, and of course, the roads will be easier either way."

 

Sinbad worries at his lip for a second, both to give himself a moment to think and to try and mask the pain from Ja’far’s sudden movement. It hurts, but nothing he can’t handle, shoving it down somewhere beneath consciousness. “Hmm, only if we can travel a bit East. Staying in one place for all that time would be worse than going home--I mean--ah, well, you know what I mean.”

 

Being in any one place for more than a few months grates on him. Being in any place even that he _loves_ for that long starts to chafe, and he certainly doesn’t love this contentious dry wasteland. “Maybe over to Partevia? I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

 

"Don't you have friends over there?" Ja'far chooses, diplomatically, to ignore the comment about something be _worse_ than going home. "I suppose that wouldn't be too bad… and it isn't as if we've heard word from Sindria that anything troublesome is happening. A few more months will be fine, I think."

 

Sinbad makes a mental note to buy Ja’far something nice, then discards it just as Ja’far would discard anything nice that wasn’t useful. He makes a new mental note to buy Ja’far something useful. “Good. You’ll like Drakon. Hell, you’ll probably join me in trying to convince him to come live in Sindria by the time we leave.”

 

"A soldier or a scholar?" is the wry question to follow, and Ja'far carefully picks himself up from the bed entirely, tugging his pants back up as he moves. Admittedly, Sindria has a shortage of both, being such a young country. Ah, if they can't go home, at least talk of _improving_ Sindria is a balm to his nerves.

 

“Mm, a bit of both. One by trade and the other by fancy. And he’s as good a judge of people as you are, I’d wager.” Sinbad grins, thinking of some rather _interesting_ situations Drakon had gotten them out of--and into--virtue of some of those capabilities.

 

'Well, that's good, I suppose." Ja'far turns around, raking a hand back through his bangs with a short exhale. "How are your wounds, really?" he seriously asks. It doesn't look as though Sinbad has opened anything up again, at least. "Honestly, you're going to have to be more careful… perhaps another week here…"

 

Sinbad flexes a few things experimentally, hissing out a breath. He pushes himself up to sitting, then lays back down with a groan. “Two more days. I could do it now, but I’ll tire too easily to make it worthwhile.” God, that makes him grumpy. Or at least it would if Ja’far didn’t look so damned pretty in the moonlight.

 

Ja'far looks skeptical, and with good reason. "… Three," he compromises, frown deepening as if daring Sinbad to argue. "There's little use in rushing it. I'd see you completely well before we left, but you will never lie still enough to let that happen."

 

Sinbad weighs his chances of getting Ja’far to change his mind, and turns his head, grumbling into the pillow. “Fine, give the nice lady downstairs one of the golden cups we took from Focalor. Oh, and ask her if she has an al-qirq board. If I’m going to be an invalid, you’re going to entertain me.”

 

"Yes, Your Majesty," is the sarcastic drawl in return, followed by an equally mocking, sweeping bow as Ja'far moves to the task. Really, Sinbad is the _worst_ invalid, but if it means he will heal properly, Ja'far can tolerate it for just a bit longer.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Partevia is an _ugly_ country. 

 

Boring, too, by the looks of it, and Judal turns his nose up the moment he's forced to actually _walk_ on the streets in the middle of the night. He normally wouldn't bother, but there's little hope of finding that man if he _doesn't_. 

 

Like this, Judal can sense him--all six of his metal vessels, though not precisely on his person. With that, it doesn't take long to pinpoint his location, and a good thing, because it's _cold_ , and no matter how tightly he wraps his cloak about himself, he didn't exactly think through the act of dressing for a climate that isn't warm, humid Kou. 

 

The window is unlatched, and it makes it easy for Judal to poke it open, sticking his head through first to catch a glimpse. Ah, _sleeping_ , does Sinbad ever do anything but that? He huffs quietly, a little push of magic making it easy to simply tumble in through the window and land on the bed without even jostling it, though the solid weight of his body promptly settling above Sinbad's hips surely will wake him soon enough.

 

That's the plan, anyway.

 

"I finally found you," he quietly sighs out, and leans forward to brace his hands on either side of Sinbad's head, nuzzling beneath his chin. "I didn't _want_ to leave before, you know…"

 

For a second, mind still fogged with sleep, Sinbad simply leans into the touch, curling his arms around the warm, nice-smelling ball of affection on his chest. 

 

Then, he wakes up, and blinks. It’s not moonlight-pale hair beneath his chin, not a softly freckled nose poking up, but the thick dark hair and mischievous face of Judal the Magi, that insouciant child who’d led him into the most dangerous trap he’d ever fallen into. _Careful_ , he reminds himself, even as he starts to tense up. _He’s a Magi, he could do things to you you’ve never dreamed of_. “You didn’t?” he asks, quietly. He can see Ja’far’s chest rising and falling out of the corner of his eye; Judal hasn’t done away with him, then, and it’s in both of their best interests to keep him asleep for the time being. “Why did you tell them where I was?”

 

Judal huffs softly, wriggling his way down into Sinbad's arms. It's warm _here_ , nestled against Sinbad's chest, and he thinks about making this a permanent sleeping spot. "It was _supposed_ to be a test, but just a little one," he murmurs, frowning. "At least, that was what they said. I didn't know they'd send so many--but you still won, so that's good."

 

Sinbad hisses. “Careful there. When you send a hundred magicians to kill a man, he’s going to be a little banged up.” Inwardly, his common sense rages. Why the hell is he _downplaying_ his injuries? He should be furious, should be trying to _kill_ the boy, kicking him out back to his precious Al-Sarmen. 

 

But those eyes are so wide, his hands clutching so innocently, it’s hard to believe he’d done it on _purpose_. 

 

Ah, Ja’far is going to kill him.

 

A slow blink follows, and Judal shifts some of his weight up and off of him, pouting the whole way. "You were injured that badly? They really _were_ in a bad mood that day…" An understatement, from how angry they also were with _him_. Judal wavers, _wanting_ to curl up into a ball on Sinbad's chest, but--"Are you mad at me? You're still going to be my king, right?" 

 

God, it’s like punching a kitten. No matter how loud the sensible, Ja’far-sounding voice is in his head, the one that’s just a little louder says that if he hadn’t given an Al-Sarmen child another chance many years ago, he wouldn’t have a sensible Ja’far-sounding voice in his head. 

 

So, he smiles, a little ruefully, and reaches a hand up to thread through the boy’s hair. “Your masters don’t like me,” he says softly, nails scraping gently along his scalp. “We have an old fight, them and me.”

 

Judal opens his mouth to reply, though whatever words were on his tongue promptly disappear and fade into something akin to a rumbling, gurgling little purr. His head bows forward, forehead dropping to Sinbad's chest with a thump. "So what?" he mumbles eventually. " _I_ like you. I'm the only one that matters."

 

It should be impossible for a quite possibly insane magician with all the power of a god to be so honestly _cute_. It’s obnoxious, at least, even if Sinbad does find himself smiling, curling his other arm around the boy. “Leave them,” he suggests. “Come be mine alone.”

 

"Can't." Judal's eyes lid, and he nestles his way back up underneath Sinbad's chin. "They got mad this time. I'm not supposed to be here, but there were other things I had to do in Partevia, so…"

 

Well, there’s no harm in cuddling the boy a little, is there? No matter what Ja’far says, he too had insisted he couldn’t leave Al-Sarmen at one point, and he’d been a lot more stubborn than this child. “How do you expect to be my Magi,” he asks gently, fingers scratching softly through Judal’s hair, “if you answer to someone else’s orders?”

 

Ah, that feels _good_. Sinbad knows how to play with his hair, and if he recalls correctly, knows how to pull it, too. None of that sharp yanking mess that leaves his scalp sore… this is even nicer, too, and it's hard to remember that he was here to try and seduce him when it almost puts him to sleep. "They're really strong, too, though," Judal sighs out, butting his head against Sinbad's hand. There's an urge to _nibble_ on something when he's being petted like this, and he settles for the curve of Sinbad's shoulder, setting his teeth to it gently. "You could work _with_ them, maybe."

 

“They don’t like me,” Sinbad reminds him, even as he sighs, trailing into a contented rumble at the scrape of Judal’s teeth. Ah, this is getting to be rather dangerous rather quickly, but Judal feels obscenely _good_ in his arms, and he sounds so...well, he doesn’t sound like the ruthless killer Ja’far had tried to paint him. “They tried to kill me.”

 

"It was just supposed to be a test," Judal protests, and he nips a bit harder, a hand absently pawing at Sinbad's chest to trace the lines of muscle through fabric. "And they _didn't_ kill you. You were better than that. So just… say yes?" He lifts his head a bit, eyes lidded. "I like you the best… ah, and you're much more fun," he mumbles, nose scrunching a bit. "Kouen wasn't nice either."

 

Sinbad doesn’t bother pointing out that if it hadn’t been for Ja’far, he certainly would have died. They’d tackled him in his sleep, had fought off his djinn equip, and had him dead to rights by anyone’s standards. No matter how many he’d killed, they’d kept _coming_ , and did Judal just say Kouen wasn’t nice to him? That _bastard_. 

 

Sinbad’s arm tightens a bit. “Did he hurt you? Are you all right?”

 

Oh, now _that's_ a good reaction. Judal's pout deepens just slightly as he worms his way against Sinbad, burying his face into the side of his neck. "It wasn't good like it was with you," he sighs, hands dragging up to thread through Sinbad's hair. "He never cares if it hurts. And he pulls my hair all wrong, and I just wish he'd _stop_ …"

 

It’s probably a bad idea to invade Kou today, or to send that brat some kind of message challenging him to a duel. That doesn’t mean Sinbad doesn’t _want_ to, or isn’t seriously considering it. “Are you hurt anywhere?” he murmurs, placing a little kiss to the top of Judal’s head without really thinking.

 

"Not _really_." He _does_ like it when Sinbad asks, though. "Mm, but that's because I left early to see you. If you were my king," Judal adds, slowly twirling a strand of Sinbad's hand around one finger, "I know you'd take care of me."

 

“I would,” Sinbad agrees. Judal smells _good_ , feels good, a warm solid weight on his chest that somehow doesn’t bother him even as it sort of digs in to his wounds. “Would you go against your masters’ orders, then? I can’t imagine they want me.”

 

"You keep calling them that," Judal grumbles, and he bites at Sinbad's neck lightly. "They're not my _masters_. I'm a _Magi_ , they serve _me_." He slowly pushes himself up, his heavy braid tumbling down over his shoulder, and he picks at the tie at the bottom of it. "If you're still injured," he says with a little arch and wriggle of his back as he slides back to properly straddle Sinbad's hips, "I'll take care of _you_ for a bit."

 

What happens next is so fast that he can't quite see it, save for the flash of steel that's suddenly at his throat--and how he's suddenly on his back on the _floor_ , yelping with the hard crack of his head against it. A fumble for his wand misses when his arms are twisted up and above his head, and Judal hisses, lurching up against the hold until a knee in his chest knocks the breath out of him. 

 

"I was _hoping_ you'd eventually tell him to go away," Ja'far coldly tosses over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off of the Magi-apparent pinned beneath him. "But as usual, Sin, you're too slow."

 

Ah. In hindsight, Sinbad suddenly remembers just _how_ light a sleeper Ja’far is, and how foolish it was to think he could have slept through two people having a conversation in the same bed he’s sleeping in. He lurches forward, ignoring the flash of hot pain in his side as he does, grabbing for Ja’far’s hand. “God, don’t _kill_ him, it’s not his fault!”

 

"Which part?" Ja'far snaps back, his fingers tightening about the blade held at Judal's throat, refusing to let Sinbad dislodge his grasp. "Do you really believe that he had no part in all of that? You would have _died_ , Sin! Can't you see he's just manipulating you?" 

 

"…'m not--"

 

"Shut up," Ja'far flatly retorts, digging his knee in a bit harder.

 

“I _didn’t_ die,” Sinbad points out, a fact he feels really shouldn’t go unnoticed. “Look, if he were part of some grand conspiracy, why would he have come alone? If he’s got all those bastards at his beck and call, why would he have come to me again _knowing_ that I know?”

 

"Because he's an idiot." As if that isn't _obvious_ enough. "Let me kill him, and this'll be done and over with, and we won't have to _speculate_." 

 

“But--” _But he’s harmless, obviously, and they’re hurting him, and he likes my hands in his hair, and look how upset he is._ “Damn it Ja’far, he’s a _kid_ , just look at him!”

 

"I'm looking." Ja'far's gaze flickers briefly back to Sinbad, sharp and unyielding. "I was 14 when I tried to kill you. Being a child changes nothing." 

 

"But I wasn't trying to kill him! It was just a test, and I--" Ja'far's blade presses down harder, and Judal swallows slow and careful, his lower lip trembling as he tries to peer up to Sinbad. 

 

Sinbad puts a strong hand on Ja’far’s shoulder--not too strong, not pulling, because he’s seen Ja’far strike under pressure before, and he’s vibrating with tension now. “And look how you turned out,” he says quietly. “I’m giving him the same chance I gave you. God, just _look_ at him, he couldn’t murder anyone!”

 

A low hiss escapes Ja'far's teeth. It isn't the hand that stops him, but rather the unspoken order-- _giving him the same chance_ , his ass--and he shoves away from Sinbad's hand, rising with a last shove of his knee into Judal's sternum for good measure, rather liking the way it makes the brat cough and wheeze. "Then make your decision already," Ja'far stiffly retorts. "Keep him or send him on his way." 

 

" _God_ , that hurts… you didn't have to _do_ that," Judal complains as he rolls himself into a petulant ball on the floor, still a little out of breath and ugh, his head hurts. "Siiiin, who is this guy, anyway? He's a jerk, I don't like him."

 

Sinbad kneels next to Judal--ah, he’s going to pay for this later, and he _really_ doubts Ja’far will let him wake up slow and easy and rubbing against his ass tomorrow morning--and holds out his hand. “This is Ja’far,” he says, trying to introduce them as if they’ll somehow manage to get along ever, something he already doubts. “He’s my advisor, and my friend.” For a second, he debates telling Judal that Ja’far was once Al-Sarmen too, but decides against it. That’s Ja’far’s past to reveal if he pleases, and only if he pleases.

 

"You have jerks for friends," Judal mutters, lower lip jutting out as he takes Sinbad's hand and slowly lets himself be pulled up. "Really, really rude. I was just _playing_ with him, you didn't have to _kick me_."

 

 _Yes, I did._ "I will let you deal with him, then," Ja'far tersely says, turning on his heel to leave. 

 

Sinbad nearly tells Ja’far not to go far, just in case Al-Sarmen is lurking--but ah, if he had to do that, Ja’far wouldn’t be Ja’far. “He gets worried about me,” Sinbad explains, lifting Judal to sit on the bed. “He knows the people you work for tried to kill me, and he doesn’t want me to die.” Well, usually. Sinbad wouldn’t give a bent penny for what Ja’far thinks of him right now.

 

"It was just supposed to be a _test_ ," Judal protests again, flopping backwards with a sigh. "He works for them, too, doesn't he, so why's he so upset? He has their blades."

 

“He works for me now.” That’s really all Judal needs to know--then again, it’s _important_ that he knows that someone can leave Al-Sarmen and still be _fine_. “He made that choice years ago, and now he serves no other master.”

 

"They're not my master." Judal lifts a hand, making a grabbing motion towards Sinbad. "I'd be much better company than him, you know."

 

Sinbad lets himself be grabbed, rolling to pin the boy down to the bed, eyes lighting up at the way Judal squirms. “And I’d be a much better companion than Kouen or Al-Sarmen.”

 

"Mmnnn… you're already a _lot_ more fun," Judal sighs, his hands splaying over Sinbad's back, finger tiptoeing down his spine. "They'd get really mad if I left, though," he murmurs, burying his face into Sinbad's neck. "They're already mad."

 

Sinbad’s fingers curl in thick dark hair, and his teeth close around the soft lobe of one ear. “I make a lot of people mad,” he murmurs, grinning. “I’d keep you safe from them.”

 

"… That jerk said you nearly died." Judal's eyes shut, his head tipping back with a low rumble escaping his throat. "I really didn't _try_ to kill you."

 

Sinbad sighs out a breath, bending down to nibble on Judal’s neck. “If you send hundreds of magicians against one sleeping man, he’s going to get hurt. Ja’far saved my life.”

 

"I didn't know they'd send so _many_." Sinbad's mouth is distracting, and Judal's fingers thread up through his hair, kneading into the back of his neck as he sighs and arches. "See, though, if I left them, they'd do worse than that. I don't want you to die." 

 

“I don’t care.” Sinbad’s teeth nip a bit sharply, and he lets his weight settle down over Judal’s body, pressing him into the bed. “If I know they’re coming, no matter how many of them there are, they won’t stand a chance.” He leans up, brushing a kiss over Judal’s pretty lips. “Wouldn’t you trust me, if I were your king?”

 

Judal frowns even as he sinks contently back into the bed. "… Yeah, but…" 

 

_If you want him, bring him to us._

 

_Just like Kouen, bring him to us--_

 

They've never been so angry, so _insistent_ before. He thinks he might have hated it, how they reacted to all of it, but ah, he can't quite piece it all together, and his head hurts when he tries… 

 

Whatever. He's here now, and they can't stop that. Sinbad is warm and strong against him, and it feels good wriggling against him, grabbing at his hair and tilting his own head up for more of those kisses rather than talking.

 

With Ja’far, reason had worked. 

 

Then again, Ja’far had been reasonable, even at the age of fourteen. Judal is an altogether different creature, one of physical and emotional needs that Sinbad can see well have been going unmet.

 

Well, maybe that’s a good way to start, with this one. So instead of arguing, of telling him about all the awful things Al-Sarmen has done and all the lies they’ve told, he kisses Judal more fiercely than the boy’s ever been kissed, hands sliding down his sides to grip his narrow waist.

 

That's better, much, _much_ better than talking.

 

Sinbad is different than Kouen. He _burns_ , and no matter how strong he is, he's never exerting it just for the sake of it. His hands are firm around Judal's waist, and he feels _held_ , not crushed, which makes him want to squirm just because he _can_ , because he likes it when Sinbad pushes him down that much more. Kouen is cold and sharp and too-rough, and for a minute, Judal thinks he flinches at the memory of it, before it's all gone in the next second and he just has Sinbad and Sinbad's kisses and his hands and the weight of him against him, pleasantly pressing him into the mattress.

 

"I told you," he tries, breathless in between kisses, "that I'd take care of you. Aren't you still hurt?" He does feel a little guilty for that, even if it's mostly because Sinbad's not entirely well when he wants him to shove him around and into things.

 

 _See, Ja’far,_ Sinbad wants to tell the younger man. _See, he cares if I’m hurt. Where’s the trained killer in that?_

 

But Ja’far wouldn’t care, and deep down Sinbad knows he’s probably right, so he pushes that thought aside, focusing more on how nice Judal feels in his arms, how much he likes pressing him down into the bed. “Don’t you worry about me,” he murmurs, stripping Judal of his clothes in a couple swift yanks before pulling the boy back to him. “Didn’t I tell you that before you chose me I’d take you on a nice soft bed, without sand getting into your hair?”

 

"… You did," Judal agrees, all the more inclined to wriggle against him now that he's nude and Sinbad's not, because there's a dozen things pleasant about that, half of them to do with feeling so contently _helpless_. He paws at Sinbad's shoulders, arches up to nip and suck at his neck, breathing in deep and shifting to better splay his legs about the man's hips--careful, sort of, because he's pretty sure Sinbad is injured somewhere on his side even if he doesn't know exactly where. "I'd let you take my hair down," he very seriously says. "You're the only person that knows how to play with it right."

 

Sinbad can tell, by now, when he’s being given a great trust, and this is one if he’s ever heard it. He’d bet that there’s probably no one else in the world that Judal takes his hair down for, and the idea of that alone, setting aside how much fun it would be to play with that much hair, makes him grin. “That’s because you know I’ll take care of you,” he says, eyes alight as he leans down to hitch Judal’s hips up, ignoring the lingering twinges of pain in his wounds. “I’ll take you up on that after you’re lying there and screaming my name, all right?”

 

A long, shuddery sigh escapes him, and Judal nods as his arms lace around Sinbad's neck, pulling him down as he leans up for another kiss. "Want you to take care of me," he murmurs, splaying his legs wider with a needy little exhale, lips parting to nip lightly at Sinbad's lower lip. "Next time, on an even better bed. I bet you have a really nice one, don't you? Back in… ahhh… Sindria?"

 

Ah, Sinbad _likes_ that. He likes thinking of Judal in Sindria, splayed out over his own bed,  hair tumbling everywhere and making everything smell like those odd desert flowers Sinbad associates him with. He hooks his arms under Judal’s knees, exposing him intimately as he nuzzles down one smooth thigh. “That’s right. I’d take very good care of you back in Sindria. Just you and me, how does that sound?”

 

It feels _good_ when Sinbad nuzzles him like that, good and oddly ticklish and enough to make him wiggle a bit more underneath him. "Really good," Judal breathes, his eyes briefly squeezing shut. His toes slowly curl, and he wants to _knead_ into something, paw at broad shoulders and tug on Sinbad's hair. "Want you to keep me."

 

“Just you and me,” Sinbad says again, nipping and sucking, leaving a stark bruise on the inside of Judal’s thigh--because if that isn’t ownership, what _is_? A slow grin spreads across his face, and he wraps a hand around Judal’s pretty cock, squeezing and stroking. “How would you like to sit in my lap, hmm?”

 

An eager nod follows, somewhere between the gasping exhale that escapes his lips as he lurches up into Sinbad's hand. Every stroke seems almost in time with the _throb_ of the bruise left on his thigh, bringing his muscles to twitch and twinge with pleasant, aching tension. "Want to," Judal breathlessly agrees, already pushing himself up onto his elbows. "I b-bet… ah--I bet you feel even bigger like that."

 

 _Not to mention I’ll be able to fuck you without opening all my wounds again,_ Sinbad thinks, easing himself to sit with his back against the wall. “Mm, why don’t you come here and find out?” he asks, parting his robes enough to free his cock, slowly stroking down over the hard length as he beckons to Judal. The aloe is in easy reach, a second’s task that leaves him so ready, so hungry for the sweet taste of the young Magi’s skin.

 

Judal moves in an instant, wriggling his way up into Sinbad's lap without a second thought. Sinbad _still_ feels good like this, and it's easier to rub against him, to bite down on his neck and shoulder as he arches his back, sighing at the slide of that hard, thick cock against his ass. "Ever since I had to leave… I've been thinking about--nnhn… doing this… again," he admits on a groan as he reaches back, fingers wrapping around Sinbad's slick cock as he wriggles down, letting it press against his hole. Judal pants out a hot, fast breath, face nuzzling into the crook of Sinbad's shoulder as he whines. "W-want you to put it in…"

 

Damn the injuries, they’ll heal eventually. 

 

Sinbad wraps an arm around Judal’s waist, holding him flush against Sinbad’s chest, hard enough to hold him in the air. He wraps the other hand around his cock, teasing the head over that pretty little hole a few times, watching Judal’s face change every time he does. Can’t help it, no matter how eager the boy in his lap is, Sinbad can’t _help_ but tease him. “This what you want? You want me inside you?”

 

Judal shudders hard, squirming, wriggling in an attempt to press down again, no matter how he had just begged for Sinbad to do it, no matter how his cock twitches as he grinds against Sinbad's belly. "Yes, yes, _yes_ ," he pleads, even his thighs trembling from the tension, the _anticipation_ that runs through him, his lips parting at that dizzying, teasing press that promises nothing but that perfect, aching stretch that he remembers so very clearly. "Want it, want you in me--"

 

Ironic, that with Ja’far Sinbad always as to remind himself to be gentle--and with this boy who wants it so badly, he’s too injured to be anything but. Ah, well, he can always heal later. He holds Judal still, no matter how he squirms, as he slowly, inescapably sets Judal down onto his cock, hissing at the sudden grip of tight heat around him. His eyes blaze, locked onto Judal’s face, watching him _take it_.

 

A long, low whine pulls from Judal's throat, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back and all he can do for a moment is swallow hard, panting out hot, ragged little breaths as he's lowered down. He stops fighting to go _faster_ after the first couple of inches, _liking_ the slow, slick ache that stretches him so thoroughly, leaves him trying to splay his legs wider to better take all of him, and god, he was _right_ , Sinbad feels even bigger like this, thicker and heavier inside of him.

 

The little sob that he lets out is _relieved_ when he finally sits down all the way, trembling atop Sinbad's cock and squirming just a bit to push him even _deeper_. That movement alone makes his mouth fall open as he leans his forehead against a broad shoulder, and Judal curls his hands into his chest, quivering as he sets his knees into the bed and rocks himself up, just enough to feel that first, too-tight little slide. Judal _thinks_ about saying something, but the words are lost in his throat, and instead he reaches back as he squirms up Sinbad's cock, twitching, tensing hard as he traces a finger around his own, stretched-wide hole, down the length of hard flesh not buried inside of him until he wriggles his way back down again.

 

Sinbad sucks in a breath, trying to remember how to make his lungs work properly when Judal is so needy, so _insistent_ , wriggling down on his cock as if he’ll die without it inside him, and _god_ he feels good inside. Sinbad places mindless little kisses all over Judal’s face, his neck, so wrapped up in the squeeze of Judal around him that he hardly notices that he’s going a bit too fast, too thoroughly enjoying the way it feels when Judal sits all the way down on him. “Like you like this,” he breathes raggedly, rocking his hips up to meet Judal’s the next time they’re close. “You’re so full--can you even think right now?”

 

Judal groans, shaking his head mindlessly as he eagerly shoves his hips down all the way, every muscle twitching, bunching tighter still at how it _feels_ to have Sinbad pressed all the way inside of him--and he's right, absolutely right, he can't _think_ with how full he is. He thinks he might be biting at Sinbad's shoulder, nibbling and sucking sloppily as he rides his cock, writhing his way down into each thrust that pushes up into him, but mostly he thinks he's grabbing and clinging and whining for more. "I-it's… really good, like this," he pants out, eyes glazed and hungry as he looks up at Sinbad. "I can feel all of you…"

 

Like this, pressed so close, Sinbad can see just how _young_ Judal really is when he looks up with those pleading, hopeful eyes. It’s got to hurt, got to _ache_ to be so full, and every hitching, mindless whine that comes from Judal’s mouth just makes Sinbad want to take him harder. He rocks up onto his knees, pressing as deeply inside as he can, leaning up to suckle and nibble on Judal’s ear as he murmurs, “If you were mine...ah--I’d take you like this every day. Slow,” he continues, hands digging in hard to Judal’s ass, squeezing the soft flesh. “Really slow. I’d set you down on me and not move until you were crying and begging me to.” God, he’s not even sure where these fantasies come from, just that with Judal, they’re strong as hell.

 

Just the _thought_ of that prompts him to shudder, makes his cock jump and throb from where it's pressed into Sinbad's hard stomach, and Judal moans, arching his back and pressing himself back into Sinbad's hands, the change in angle making him yelp and jerk and _twitch_. "Do that _noow_ ," he begs, and he deliberately sinks down as far as he can manage, his thighs quivering so hard that he can barely do anything _but_ sit on Sinbad's cock. No matter how he moves, how he tries to spread his legs to accommodate for that wide, wide stretch, it's still too much, and Judal just sobs, his arms helplessly draping their way over Sinbad's shoulders as he sags against him. "C-can't… can't take anymore," he whispers. 

 

Sinbad’s arms curl around Judal’s waist, one hand coming to pull down on his shoulder, pulling him _that much deeper_ as he settles Judal onto his lap as comfortably as he can, given how stuffed full he is. For a moment, he doesn’t move beyond a gentle rocking, pressing kisses to every part of Judal he can reach, spots dancing in front of his eyes from how goddamn _good_ it feels. “Yes you can,” he murmurs, arms tight around Judal’s waist as he rocks. “You can take everything I can give you, right?”

 

The next sound from his mouth is a hiccuping sob rather than any agreement, his eyes rolling back as he's settled so _firmly_ , so perfectly into Sinbad's lap that he can feel, with every little rock of the man's hips, his cock pressing just _shy_ of right, that constant, mindless tease enough to make Judal forget how to _breathe_. "I…" He swallows hard, nodding without thought, his cock so hard that every little brush and slide enough to make him shudder as he leaks over Sinbad's stomach. "You're just… just so _big_ and I--" 

 

“Mm, and you’re so small,” Sinbad rumbles, and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t appeal to him a bit. Judal just fits so _perfectly_ in his arms, hardly a weight at all, even though he thrashes so nicely, so frantically on Sinbad’s cock. He combs a hand back through Judal’s hair, wiping the little beads of sweat from his brow. “All right?” he asks, rocking up once more. “What do you need?”

 

" _Fuck me_." It doesn't matter that just a moment ago, he was whining about how he couldn't _take it_ \--his body sings, everything trembling, everything aching, and the slick, too-deep slide of Sinbad's cock is enough to drive him mad, especially just with those slow, not-even thrusts that press him that much deeper from time to time. "Please," Judal rasps, and he nudges his head frantically against Sinbad's hand, butting into it with a low whine. "F-feels good… when I can't take it. Just… just a little more and…" 

 

Any more, and Sinbad will lose his mind.

 

He rocks up onto his knees again, pressing a long, sweet kiss to Judal’s mouth, tasting and nibbling at his lips. Then, he takes Judal’s waist in his hands, lifts him up, and lowers him down with as much control as he can muster, bucking up to hit something so good he knows he can make Judal scream. “Just like that,” he mutters, his own breath starting to come ragged from the exertion. “Show me how much you like it--”

 

Judal _wants_ to scream.

 

The shriek catches in his throat and comes out as a ragged, mindless little sob instead, his entire body spasming, shivering, lurching _down_ as that one, hard thrust is _more_ than enough. His vision blurs, his hands claws as he clings to Sinbad's shoulders, and he can't think, can't _move_ , his entire body melting as he comes, mouth open as he gasps for a full breath of air and just _can't_ seem to draw it fast enough into his lungs as he spills hot and messy between them, over Sinbad's stomach and his own with short, desperate shivers.

 

Sinbad’s arms tighten, holding Judal still and steady as he shakes, biting down hard into the boy’s neck to keep from following him at the sudden spasming of muscles around his cock. At least, he tries--a few seconds later and his control is out the window, hands digging into Judal’s waist to slam him down, up and down with a half-dozen hard, fierce slaps of his hips before he comes deep inside, a ragged growl tearing its way out of his throat. 

 

His heart is pounding too fast, everything aching, and ah, he’s really not healthy enough for this yet, but Sinbad relaxes back against the wall, kissing the tears on Judal’s flushed face.

 

Judal whimpers as he buries himself into Sinbad's chest, a lingering _twinge_ raking up his spine at how _full_ he still feels--even more so, now that he can feel Sinbad slick and hot and _messy_ inside of him. "Want you to do this all the time," he breathes, never mind that he can barely lift his head as he says it. "Please…"

 

Sinbad buries a hand in Judal’s hair, nails scraping gently as he holds the boy against him, a twinge of guilt coursing through him as he remembers how _recently_ he’d shared this bed with Ja’far, and what that means. It’s not just him, it’s Ja’far and Masrur and all of Sindria he has a responsibility to now, no matter how much he likes ignoring those inconvenient facts. “Just be mine,” he murmurs, face nuzzling into Judal’s hair. “I’ll do it forever if you leave them.”

 

A put-out little moan is Judal's retort. "I told you, I _can't_." God, though, Sinbad's fingers feel even better in his hair right now, and make him shiver and squirm. "They're strong, too, and they'll make us all that much stronger."

 

“Hmm.” Sinbad doesn’t even try to keep the note of disapproval out of his voice, even as his hands turn affectionate, petting and scratching. “I’m the king. I can’t serve anyone but myself, and I don’t want my Magi answering to another master.”

 

"They're not my masters, they serve _me_ , so they'd serve _you_ , too." Judal huffs, butting his head into Sinbad's shoulder. "You just don't want to be my king, do you?"

 

“I won’t work with them.” It’s probably too soon to be giving ultimatums, but they seem to be the only thing Judal can understand, for better or worse. “If I were your king, could I order you to leave them?”

 

At that, Judal wavers, the question seeming to throw him for a loop. "… I dunno. Maybe." 

 

Sinbad frowns, trying to play more of the disapproving father look than the angry king. “That doesn’t sound like we’d be very powerful, as a king and a Magi should be.”

 

"It's not that!" Judal protests, lurching up with a deep frown of his own. "It's just--I mean, they haven't even _taught me_ everything yet." He fidgets, looking down again with his brows knitting. "I want to at least be able to put all of their power to good use… that's what they've always told me, that they know more about magic than anyone else, so it's _good_ that I'm with them."

 

“Hmm.” Sinbad’s hands don’t pause their stroking, but he looks away, thinking. “I thought Magi were the most powerful people on earth. Surely _they_ should be begging to learn from _you_.” God, this had been so much easier with Ja’far, who was smart enough to _know_ when he was being used.

 

"Well… they do, a little bit. They can't do most of what they do without my power, after all." And he's _proud_ of that, especially with how they worship the ground he works on for it. "But Magi aren't born knowing everything about magic, and I want to be _really_ good at it, so they're the best people to learn from." 

 

“What if I gave you the finest teachers?” He doesn’t have them yet, but he can always _find_ them. “I wouldn’t care if it took you years to learn, so long as you’re at my side.”

 

Judal sniffs, annoyed. "Why do _I_ have to wait when I can be better sooner? Besides, I already told you, there's no one better than the ones I already have." 

 

“That’s just what they told you. If you come with me, no one will tell you what to do.” _Except me, of course, but that’s implicit in the deal_. “And no one will hurt you, not while I can protect you.”

 

"Your 'advisor' already gave me a bruise," Judal moodily points out, a pout twisting his lips as he leans back to prod at the darkening bruise on his chest. "Is that part of the deal, too?"

 

 _Thanks, Ja’far._ Sinbad runs a thumb over the bruise, then leans down to press a gentle kiss to it. “He woke up to find someone sitting on my chest, and he knows I was attacked a few days ago. He just wants to keep me safe.” He smiles, and lies through his teeth, “If you came home with me, I’m sure he’d want to keep you safe too.”

 

Judal looks skeptical, and with good reason, he thinks. "I dunno… he didn't seem to like me very much. Maybe he's jealous?" He smirks at that. "He can't be anywhere near as fun as me, right?"

 

It’s hard to resist the infectiousness of that smile. Sinbad leans forward, dumping Judal onto his back and attacking his neck, nipping and nibbling. “Mmm, you think you’re a lot of fun, huh?”

 

"What, I'm not?" Judal huffs, though there's no real irritation there, not when he has Sinbad on his neck and ample opportunity to wind his fingers through the man's hair. "You seem to enjoy yourself well enough. If he does something better, though, you better tell me so I can change that." 

 

 _He’s loyal to me and me alone_ , Sinbad thinks, but refrains from saying. Instead-- “Hmm, I’m not sure. He might look better in a bellydancing costume.”

 

" _What?_ " Judal looks utterly aghast. "There's _no way_. He's so pale and-- _weird_. Even his hair is weird. I'd look much better." 

 

Sinbad shrugs, enjoying himself now with a silent apology to Ja’far that he doesn’t really mean. “I don’t know, he looked pretty good in one. And you’re so thin, not a lot of meat here,” he adds, with a little pinch to Judal’s ass.

 

Judal squeaks, though rather than slap at Sinbad's hand, he just wriggles. "But I'm a good dancer!" he protests, squirming to kick at Sinbad half-heartedly. "I'd look really good in one, way better than him!"

 

“Oh?” Sinbad raises his eyebrows, leaning over to give little love bites all down Judal’s neck. “I’ll believe it when I see you dance for me. I’ve seen him in one of those slinky little things.”

 

"… Maybe later," Judal amends, sighing as he simply tips his head back, enjoying the attention for all it's worth.

 

… Until he notices that the sun might be starting to rise, just outside of the window.

 

"Damn it." He grumpily huffs, shutting his eyes. "I have to go soon."

 

For a second, Sinbad considers not letting him.

 

Ah, but that’s not how he wants to do this, by throwing the boy over his shoulder and heading for the mountains. Is it even possible to kidnap a Magi? Probably not. He sighs, resting his head on Judal’s chest, and reaches over to put on his ring. “Should I expect another ‘test’?” he asks wryly, making a joke of it even as he dons the vessel.

 

Judal blinks, then gives a shake of his head, wriggling away after another moment to search for his clothes. "This doesn't have anything to do with you. It's Kou Empire stuff."

 

Sinbad almost scowls, but realizes at the last second that that would be less than politic. “Oh? Anything fun for you?” If he can find something out about the Kou Empire’s movements, Ja’far _might_ just be interested enough to forgive him.

 

" _Nothing_ is ever fun with them," Judal grumbles, sighing as he gets dressed, and giving a little wince as he stretches, hurting in strange places and rather liking it. "Ahh, I just wanna stay in bed. You're _warm,_ and it's way too cold out there."

 

Sinbad reaches out, giving him a last pinch. “Where are you off to, you and your Kou Empire? Not too far away, I hope.”

 

"Oh, no, it's still within Partevia. That's why I was able to come and see you in the first place!" Judal wriggles away from Sinbad's pinching fingers, and huddles himself up into his cloak as a last resort to save himself from the chill he know awaits him. "Maybe I'll come and see you again afterwards." _Please be here_ , is the unspoken plead.

 

 _Shit_. Sinbad stands, shaking his robes back into place as he cups Judal’s face in his hands, tilting his head up for a long kiss. “I’ll look for you out the window,” he says, and bites Judal’s nose softly. “Just try not to bring any friends.”

 

Judal _purrs_ , foregoing the instinctive lift of magic in favor of stretching up on tiptoe to _savor_ Sinbad's kiss, sighing a little as he sinks back down. "Mm, I won't bring anyone. I want you all to myself, after all." He wrinkles his nose. "Just keep your advisor and his weird freckles away."

 

Sinbad bites his tongue on that, given that he can _feel_ Ja’far standing right outside the room, knowing he has enough to pay for. “Just you and me,” he promises. _Maybe then, I can talk you around and get some reason into that thick skull of yours._

 

"Good." Judal leans up to steal a last kiss before whirling away, wrapped up tightly in his cloak as he makes for the window. "Later, then!" is his last call over his shoulder before simply tumbling out of it.

 

The second he fades from view, all the pains Sinbad has been suppressing come flooding back. He sags back onto the bed, eyes shut. “I know you’re out there so come in and change my bandages, please.” It’s going to hurt like hell, but it already does.

 

"Maybe I should let you bleed to death." Nevertheless, the door cracks open, and Ja'far strides inside, already reaching for the bandages in question. "It might be kinder than letting you sink to such levels of stupidity." 

 

Wincing, Sinbad parts his robes, unsurprised to see that a few of his wounds have opened and started bleeding through the bandages. “Fair enough,” he admits weakly, sagging back against the wall. “God, it’s like dancing on the edge of a knife. I never knew if he was going to open a crater or call his watchdogs.”

 

"Then why are you humoring him so?" Ja'far asks, exasperated. A blade flips into his hand without hesitation, and he doesn't wait to warn Sinbad before simply slicing through the bloody mess his bandages have become. "You're in no shape to _deal_ with his watchdogs, either, so perhaps you should take the hint and simply _don't_."

 

“Ah--you saw him,” Sinbad points out, holding as still as he possibly can. Ja’far without the blades is plenty frightening, to an injured man. Ja’far _with_ the blades is a whole other story. “Did he look stable to you? I have no idea what a rejection would do to him.”

 

Ja'far lifts his eyes, gaze sharp and disbelieving. "If that is your excuse, then you need to try harder." Carefully, he peels the used bandages away, leaning in closer to get a good look at the deepest wound on Sinbad's side, and sighs before turning away to fetch the proper dressings. "I'm sure it wouldn't be a problem either way if he were dead."

 

“He’s a child,” Sinbad says, a little on-edge from the sharpness of Ja’far’s tone. “For god’s sake, he’s not old enough to shave, and he’s in the pocket of some very powerful people. It’s not his fault.”

 

"He willingly stays there. _Happily_ stays there," Ja'far corrects with a snort, sitting down onto the edge of the bed to begin the process of packing Sinbad's wound again. 

 

Ja’far’s tone worries him. There’s _loathing_ there, the sort of disdain Sinbad’s rarely heard him express, far beyond what he usually uses for Al-Sarmen. “Were you so different, at his age?”

 

A sharp snort follows that, and Ja'far thinks he might be a bit too rough when it comes to layering herbs and dressings. "I was never happy with them."

 

Sinbad lets out a hiss, but he nods, taking the hint. “Fair enough, fair enough. He’s not nearly as smart as you are. You have to know that.”

 

"No, and he's content like that, too, which is infuriating," Ja'far mutters, eyeballing the wound once more before reaching for the fresh set of bandages. "They want to keep him ignorant, and he's doesn't care."

 

“He’s--” Sinbad sighs, staring out the window, trying to marshall his thoughts. “He doesn’t know any better. If you’d never seen the sun, would you be blamed for not knowing you were cold?” Well, that’s not the best metaphor he’d ever made.

 

"… You're defending him like one of those women that you've decided you're in love with once you're very, very drunk." A swift pull, and Ja'far tightens the bandages into place. 

 

Sinbad lets out a grunt, then stands, casting the whole stupid mess of it aside. “Fine. Let’s go. We know the Kou Empire is busy in Partevia, so let’s just go have dinner with Drakon like I promised and then we can go home.”

 

Ja'far's eyes roll skyward at the _convenient_ dismissal. "And your offer to see him again later?" 

 

“Are you insane?” Sinbad shrugs his outer robes on, donning the heavy jewelry he’s put aside for his convalescence. “The boy’s mad. And even if he weren’t, he’s in Al-Sarmen’s pocket.” He turns, catching Ja’far’s eye with a wry smile. “Just because I _like_ him doesn’t mean I trust him an inch.”

 

That draws a little flutter of relief through him, and Ja'far relaxes an inch, sinking back onto his heels. "Good. I'm glad to hear that." _I was beginning to think you really were_ taken _with him, and that would have been annoying._

 

Sinbad sighs, tying his hair at the back of his neck--or trying, with the way the damn tie keeps slipping from his fingers as the angle tugs on one of his wounds. “I’d like him to be someone I could trust, but I’d be a fool if I treated him that way. I already saw what happens when I fall asleep when he knows where I am. I’d rather not do that again.”

 

"There are two other Magi, neither of which have ties with Al-Sarmen," Ja'far reminds him, moving around to simply pluck the tie from Sinbad's hand and pull his hair back for him. "Woo them instead, if you are so set on having one." 

 

Sinbad releases the tie gratefully, fixing the necklaces and belts so everything hangs just right and won’t tangle, not an easy task. “I didn’t go out to _court_ him. He fell into my lap. Literally.”

 

"And now you want him." Ja'far's hands slide away once he's finished. "It annoys you, when you can't _have_ something," he points out.

 

Sinbad doesn’t bother to deny it. “Of course it does. It annoys everyone when they can’t have something they want.” He turns, grabbing one of Ja’far’s hands. “It annoys you when I don’t behave like a responsible adult, doesn’t it?”

 

"… Yes," Ja'far hedges, tugging at his hand to free it. "But that's because when you don't behave responsibly, there are normally numerous very, very bad consequences to be had."

 

Ah. Definitely still prickly. Sinbad forgoes charm for the time being, opting instead to stuff what few items they have into their packs. “Either way, we should get moving, make the most of daylight. I’ll probably need to sleep long before nighttime with these damned injuries, and Drakon is a few hours’ walk inside the border.”

 

"I'll go and wake Masrur." At least this is doing something that doesn't involve that little brat of a Magi, and the promise of _home_ beyond that is pleasant. "We should have time to grab breakfast from the marketplace, if we're lucky. You'll need it, after all the energy you burned this morning alone," Ja'far sniffs, brushing past him to the door.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

Partevia was--is a _bad decision._

 

The country is cold and barren and grey, and from the look on Sinbad's face when they arrive, it's not supposed to be. Ja'far keeps silent and keeps an even sharper eye, the thrum that something is _wrong_ solidly in the back of his mind. 

 

Neither of them are wrong to be wary.

 

Al-Sarmen's hold over the country is obvious and dark, like some sort of oozing, polluted cloud. Ja'far sees it first in the wildlife, or what remains of it--lizards with two heads, flies buzzing about dead things that he can't put a name to, wilted trees that have otherwise stood for what must have been decades. It's nothing compared to some of the _people_ , though. Scales or fur or even extra limbs, and then there are those fully transformed, monstrous things that make Sin keep a hand on his sword and Ja'far's grip too-tight on his blades, until they realize they'e still _humans_ , with human minds that are very, very afraid. 

 

The look on Sinbad's face when they finally make it to Drakon, to see that he is no longer a man but instead ironically resembling his own _name_ , is probably more painful than anything.

 

"It's Al-Samen's experiments," he says, sort of bitter and tired of it more than afraid. "I wouldn't have ended up like this, but to save my wife--"

 

It's all that needs to be said (oddly, or perhaps less than oddly, the longer he thinks about it, Ja'far thinks he would have done the same for Sinbad).

 

After that conversation, Sinbad seems eager to _leave_ , with offers for Drakon to return with him, and Ja'far has never felt more relieved. Out of this wasteland of a country and back to Sindria, where it is safe and they can actually _do_ something to act against such atrocities--that is what he wants, more than anything.

 

But then there is Judal.

 

The world seems to rip apart with the Magi's presence, and Ja'far thinks, for not the first time, that Sinbad should have just let him _kill the wretch when he could have._ The wind that whips about them is nearly enough to take him off of his feet, magical enough to sap the crackle of electricity from his blades, and his head and back slams hard into a still-standing post of Drakon's now-destroyed home, the remnants of the tornado whirling down as his vision shakes and blurs. 

 

"You didn't wait for me." Judal sounds _petulant_ , like a child whose father never did bring them back a gift after a long stay away. "You said you'd wait. Ahh, and I got in so much trouble again for going back to see you! I'm really mad." 

 

Ja'far thinks Sinbad might have replied, but there's nothing to be heard over the crackle of magic that makes his own hair stand on end as he tries to stand, head spinning, heart pounding, and he can _feel_ , by the rush that goes through his veins, that there is a djinn's power at work, hopefully protecting Sin when he _can't_. 

 

"Was that from one of my dungeons?" The inquiry would be fond, if it weren't absolutely on edge. "After all the work I put into you, _this_ is how you treat me?!"

 

The world shakes and goes black, and Ja'far remembers the panic that wells in his throat first and foremost.

 

When he wakes, Sinbad isn't there.

 

He hasn't moved, himself, but there are others--dark, shadowy _others_ , with white and black robes and others with scaled, clawed limbs, or even the heads of warm-blooded things that don't _belong_ standing on two legs. They reach for him, whispering, telling him how they'd welcome him back, that his master is dead, there's nowhere else for him to go--

 

Ja'far thinks he sees Judal, fingers laced behind his back, long braid swaying as he talks excitedly to another cloaked man, stretched upon tiptoe like he's a boy talking of his daily adventures and wanting to make _sure_ his companion hears it all. 

 

_Sinbad is dead, and you killed him_. 

 

Ja'far doesn't think. He moves, sure and swift, the spray of blood hot over his face as he thinks not about the _mess_ he'll leave behind--something he's avoided since meeting Sinbad, something he doesn't want Sinbad to _see_ , because a sure and swift and _clean_ kill is better. Then, Sin doesn't have to know the full extent of everything, doesn't have to realize that he's still _one of them_ , and it feels _good_ , cutting them down, one by one until only Judal and his puppet master remain. 

 

They don't even lift a finger to stop him. _They don't even care about their own._

 

Judal smiles, slow and amused, and they're gone in the next moment, a fluttering swirl of black rukh so concentrated that even _he_ can see it before it dissipates all over again, and he's left starkly, sharply alone. 

 

~~

 

Sinbad hurts.

 

The djinn equip fades away, taking with it the last of his strength, leaving him less than a shell of a man, nothing but a bleeding, hollow shell. Oddly enough, the only thing that bothers him about dying is that he’s dying _here_ , and that _here_ isn’t _Sindria_. 

 

_I should have taken you home, Ja’far,_ he thinks, eyes closing with his next labored breath. The ice has pierced him all over, and breathing is too difficult, not worth the effort when he’s so _tired_ , when he’s already so injured. _I hope you make it back without me._

 

_Idiot. There’s no Sindria without you._

 

It’s not fair, that the voice in his head sounds so much like Ja’far. Ja’far is just a stupid kid he saved from being a killer all his life. He’s just someone Sinbad loves, someone Sinbad would die for.

 

And if he _were_ dying for Ja’far, that would make this whole thing easier.

 

He wills his eyes to shut for a moment, but they blink, the dust from the broken buildings settling all around him. A strong, no-longer-human hand grips his arm, hauling him to his feet as Drakon asks in that still-unfamiliar voice, “Sin, can you walk?”

 

_Of course I can_ , he thinks, angry as hell about it. _I have to, don’t I?_

 

He leaves a little more of his blood behind with every step, and that annoys him too. Drakon cuts down the first man they see, and it’s with a primal scream that Sinbad slices through the second, and the third, and the fourth and fifth in one stroke. 

 

Al-Sarmen will pay for what they’ve done to his friend, and the country that treated him as one of their own when he had nothing left in the world. They’ll pay, until there’s nothing left of them. The frenzy of battle takes hold, and even without the magoi left for a djinn equip he refuses to go down no matter how many spells Al-Sarmen throw at him, one eye on his opponents, one scanning the sky for the mad laughing form of Judal the Magi.

 

Then, the tide stops, and all there is is the river of bodies left behind him, and the ocean he sees pooled around the lone standing figure. A slight thing, tattered and worn and far too pale, splattered with bright crimson blood not his own, and Sinbad sags with relief at the sight. “You’re alive.”

 

 

Ja'far blinks, vision cluttered with the blood that clings even to his lashes. That's Sin's voice, oddly enough, even though he's quite certain he's mistaken and hallucinating. Or maybe _he's_  dead now, too, and this is supposed to be some strange concept of the afterlife, with heaven a battlefield all over again…

 

Or maybe, Sin is just _alive_.

 

Ja'far lurches forward, blades clattering to the ground as he stumbles through the veritable pool of blood at his feet, splattering it up one leg as he reaches out, grasping for the other man mindlessly. "You're alive," he echoes in a whisper, eyes wild, far too bright even though yellow has long since faded from them. "I thought…" _That Magi had killed you, there was nothing left, that I couldn't protect you and it was all my fault._

 

 

To Sinbad, injuries have never mattered less.

 

Ja’far looks every bit the lost child he had six years ago, albeit more careworn, more bloodstained, and the only anger left in Sinbad is that _that was supposed to be over for him, damn you bastards_. 

 

A few faltering steps, and he’s grabbing Ja’far, lifting him up with all the strength still left in his arms (or more likely, the life energy he’s pouring into his muscles to force himself to keep going). They’re both bloody, both smeared in it, and Sinbad doesn’t care, crushing the young man to his chest. “S’alright,” he mumbles, relief like giddiness through his body. “S’alright, we’re alive.”

 

 

Ja'far's knees buckle, his own arms thrown tightly about Sinbad's neck, and he nods numbly, breath a shaky, unbalanced heave into Sinbad's shoulder. He can't think beyond _you're alive, you're alive, that's what matters more than anything_ , but at some point, he remembers words are useful and there are things he probably should say--"Sent Masrur away with Drakon's wife. I think… think they got away just fine, before this all…" He trails off, voice breaking a little. _You should have let me kill him, you_ have to _, the next time we see him._

 

 

It’s with a weary sigh and a last squeeze-- _as long as you’re all right, as long as I didn’t lose you, as long as I’m not the reason you’re hurt or dead_ \--that Sinbad lets Ja’far’s toes touch the ground. He can’t even count all the places he’s bleeding, but that’s a problem for someone with more free time than he’s got, so he ignores it. “Drakon was with me a moment ago, he--ah, there, looks like he found Masrur.” 

 

He looks out, scanning over the barren horizon. “This place turns my stomach.”

 

 

"We can't do anything right now." Ah, his legs are still unsteady, his head pounding, and Ja'far swallows slowly around the dry lump in his throat. "Not from here." _We need to get home, back to Sindria, if there's any chance of doing anything._

 

Never mind that he wants, more than anything, _Sinbad_  safe and well again, and that's a much easier task accomplished behind the walls of their own fortress. "… If that Magi comes back--" _It's just going to be even worse._

 

 

Sinbad’s lip curls, snarling at the very _thought_ of all that black rukh, those mad red eyes, and all the magoi going to rape the land and people of Partevia. “If any of them find us here, we’re through,” he says flatly. “And if I find that any of them have so much as set a _toe_ inside Sindria when we get home…”

 

_I’ll burn their strong places. I’ll find their hearts and rip them out. I’ll take whatever’s most dearest to them and laugh as it dies._

 

 

Ja'far nods without really hearing. "Then let's go back, and make sure that they _don't_. Bring Drakon, we can keep him and his wife safe, at the very least."

 

 

Sinbad wants to argue that they can bring everyone, open Sindria’s doors to all the Partevians who’ve been affected by this _travesty_.

 

And then he looks around, and realizes what he hasn’t wanted to notice since he’d crawled out of that broken building. “There’s no one else left, is there?”

 

 

"… If there is, they aren't here." Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, attempting to steady himself. "I think… Al-Sarmen took most of them that remained. Who knows what they'll do with them."

 

 

“They’ll answer for it.” For a second, the anger overtakes him, and Sinbad swears he feels a little part of him _change_. 

 

Then he shakes it off, noticing the way Ja’far is none too steady on his feet, knowing he himself isn’t much better. “Come on. Let’s find shelter where they won’t spot us. We can rest and patch up before we head home.”

 

 

_I don't want to rest._ He feels like a soft gust of wind could knock him over. _I want to go home now._  Sindria is still miles and miles and an ocean away. _I don't need to patch anything up._  That's probably his blood running down his face, finally, though he blinks it away each time it fills his eyes. "All right," Ja'far says instead, and he belatedly thinks to turn back and grab up his blades from where he had dropped them before, no matter how his hands shake. 

 

_Sin is alive. That's all that matters._

 

_~~_

 

 

Sinbad wants to laugh.

 

Not really; there’s nothing funny about the situation, after all. They’d known there was something wrong from the first moment they stepped over the borders, expecting that breeze of fresh ocean air that _feels_ like Sindria, like the country Sinbad had built with his bare hands from a bunch of sand and rubble and scattered starving peasants.

 

Instead, they find refugees.

 

People are leaving, desperate to get out, to find some solace in another country-- _any_ other country--and leaving with nothing but what they can carry on their backs, sometimes with less than that. It isn’t exactly a river of people, but they’re rarely alone on the road, and no one seems to be going the same direction they are. 

 

Even after cleaning themselves up, they’re bruised and battered enough that no one recognizes them as the King and his right-hand man, especially not when all eyes seem to be (understandably) drawn to the giant lizard traveling with them. It makes Sinbad irrationally angry; don’t they know he’s no monster? Can’t they see, after talking with the man for the space of ten seconds, that he’s a kind and decent man who’d been horribly abused?

 

He’s glad they’re leaving. People like that don’t belong in the country he built.

 

But the farther they go, he finds evidence of battles. He sees Ja’far’s face grow grim, and knows it’s nothing to his own. 

 

After a week he can’t stop his hands from making fists, can’t stop himself from hitting a tree until it falls over and he screams himself hoarse with the rage and frustration, seeing families butchered--families he was supposed to _protect_ \--by an opportunistic upstart nation that thought to take advantage while Sindria was left unprotected.

 

Unprotected, by god.

 

It’s another week, and in the capital that someone first recognizes him. The streets are in anarchy, shops boarded up, windows smashed, doors smashed, food going to rot because no one has the coin to pay for it, children fighting like wild dogs in the streets. Someone calls his name, and the second he turns his head, the shout goes up.

 

“The King has returned!”

 

An hour later, covered in the remains of rotten vegetables, bruised by thrown cobblestones, his robe torn to shreds, Sinbad sinks to the floor of his palace, braced against the bolted door.

 

He doesn’t move again for some time.

 

 

Ja'far has seen worse.

 

He doesn't want to say it. There's no words that would be soothing, anyway, least of all that. Either way, Ja'far doesn't _want_  to be reminded of the country he was brought up in, the wars and poverty and strife, least of all within Sindria--Sindria, a country that is supposed to be their _paradise._  

 

With that in mind, he lets Sinbad lock himself in his room for a total of three days.

 

Ja'far isn't sure he remembers what the inside of his own eyelids look like during that time, but he remembers what _fear_ looks like on the faces of those that remain, remembers the initial scoffs of disbelief when he announces by royal decree the food and supply lines, the wages for those that are willing to work to build shelter and repair the mercantile districts, first and foremost. Using magic for petty, petty things such as blocking the toss of stones is never something Ja'far enjoys, but it gets the point across-- _I have power, let me lend it to you._

 

Those that remain slowly start listening, and those that decide not to, he bids good riddance. 

 

The inside of the parliamentary archives is a whirlwind of shredded paper and scroll and there's a brief, irrational flare of anger, to see their country's laws spilled-over with ink. _That_  he works on alone, once he is convinced of some tentative rebuilding, some reluctant _hope_  in the eyes of those that remain, and the sounds of hammers and chisels are never so soothing as they are now, when he watches the sun rise and set in-between sweeping the very, very empty office halls. 

 

It's not everything, not by a long shot, but it's a start, and it'll do. 

 

On the morning of the fourth day, Ja'far remembers that thing called bathing past dunking himself into a cold basin, remembers dressing past the bare minimum of formalities, and a still ink-stained fist gently knocks against Sinbad's bedroom door. He forgets what it's like to be tired. It's a good thing, when there's still so much else to do.

 

 

It’s not the first time someone has knocked on the door. 

 

Sinbad opens his eyes to stare at the wall. It’s marbled pink and yellow pressed sand, built from bricks he and his magicians had raised from the ocean floor. People had begged to help them build the palace. He’d built extra rooms, and when his magic was exhausted he’d stripped to a loincloth and joined the manual laborers, and they’d smiled through the sweat. Every night, they’d had a bonfire, and roasted whatever sea creatures had been foolish enough to wander too close.

 

He shuts his eyes.

 

It was a dream, after all. It was a dream that had started as a fairytale he told a young boy who needed something to believe in. It was a fairytale he’d told himself when the nights were too cold, when he’d gone to sleep early because there was nothing in his belly, when he’d fought with his hands when his weapons were gone, when he’d thought a dozen nights in a row that he’d die in chains the next day.

 

It was a dream, and all fairytales end sooner or later.

 

 

A wise decision, then, to bring the keys after all. 

 

Ja'far heaves a little sigh, casting his eyes briefly upward as if there's some deity feeling merciful enough to grant him with good luck for five minutes as he slides the key into the lock, turning it with a twist of his wrist and slowly pushing the door open after that. Ah, good. At least Sin hasn't slung some heavy piece of furniture in front of it (yet).

 

"Sin." There's a quiet thud as the door shuts behind him. "It's time to get up." If they were having their morning briefing, it would be--just after the sun has settled and the air has warmed a bit, but not so early that Sinbad would be whining about the hangover he undoubtedly would have from the night prior.

 

 

Ja’far hasn’t left him. Of course Ja’far hasn’t left him, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go any more than Sinbad has. He’d failed Ja’far, too. How many times had Ja’far asked him to come _home_ to Sindria? If he’d listened, if he’d only _listened_ , they could have made it before that traitor decided he had better things to do than to sit on the throne in the king’s absence. If he’d only _listened_ , they’d have come back to Sindria, not to a pile of rubble and starving peasants. 

 

He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. There’s nothing to see. “You should go,” he says quietly. “Get out before they storm this place. Take whatever you want from the treasury, you deserve it.”

 

Never mind that he wouldn’t last five minutes without Ja’far. He doesn’t plan on it anyway.

 

 

"They aren't going to storm the palace, Sin." Ja'far drifts his way over to Sinbad's bed, his arms folding within his robes. "You should come outside, and see the city again."

 

 

“What city?” 

 

There’s no humor in his laugh, and Sinbad curls in on himself, every beat of his heart feeling like it’s just too much work, too much work to keep such a failure alive. “There’s no city without the people. They know when a ship is sinking.” _They’ve all left me, all but you. It’s selfish, but I want you to stay with me, even if Sindria sinks into the ocean where it belongs._

 

 

"There are people," Ja'far simply replies, and with a light sigh, he takes a seat upon the edge of the bed, the mattress barely shifting beneath his weight. "But no sinking ships, as far as I've seen." Lifting a hand, he catches a strand of Sinbad's hair, gently twisting it about his fingers. "Then again, I've been busy." 

 

 

“They hate me.” God, how can he ever show his face again? Even if they do somehow, _somehow_ manage to save a little corner of the shining dream he’d once had, how can he bear to let them see him? 

 

 

"If they hated you, they wouldn't stay." Ja'far's eyes lid, and he leans forward, draping himself loosely over the curl of Sinbad's form. "They've been working hard, too. They want to stay in Sindria."

 

 

It’s petty, and selfish, and pathetic of him to take so much comfort from Ja’far’s presence. He does all the same, slowly reaching a hand up to curl over one of Ja’far’s. “You’re lying. They threw rocks at me.” It _hurts_ , and not physically. There had been such hatred, such pain in their faces, the people he’d thought it would be so _easy_ to protect. “It’s a nice lie, though. Thank you.”

 

 

"Mm, they threw them at me, too, when I went back dressed like this." Ja'far's hand twists, fingers slowly lacing their way through Sinbad's. "I told them they could leave, if they wanted to do that, or stop and actually put that strength to better use. Most of them chose the latter, actually. You should come see it--the marketplace is almost entirely cleaned up now, the residential areas are much better already." 

 

 

A tiny spark of hope flares, then dies. Even if Ja’far is telling the truth, _he’d_ still failed them. “Take it. They want you, not me. Name it Jadria.”

 

 

Ja'far snorts. "That's an awful name. Besides, I did it all by royal decree-- _your_  royal decree. My apologies for forging your signature on a few documents." 

 

 

“Forge whatever you want. They’ll never want me back.” His fingers tighten on Ja’far’s; Ja’far had known, of all of them, how important this dream was to him. 

 

 

"They keep asking for you." His own fingers slowly squeeze back. "They miss you. Some of them are even starting to say that it's a little odd for me not to be dragging you around by the ear."

 

 

The spark of hope flares again and wavers uncertainly. “They do?”

 

 

"Mmhm. The women, especially, want to know why you aren't out there with their husbands, throwing bricks around without your shirt on." Ja'far muffles a sigh into the curve of Sinbad's shoulder. "Or why you haven't been out for your morning run on the beach, half-naked as always… ah, you've built a shallow country."

 

 

That hope catches on dry tinder--ah, he wants _so badly_ for it to be true--and ignites. Ja’far couldn’t make something like that up, surely. He turns onto his back, blinking up at Ja’far, unable to repress the pathetic needy look in his eyes. “They really want me back? As the king? Even though...I failed them?”

 

 

Ja'far pushes himself up, lips twisting wryly. " _Failure_  would be admitting defeat. Sindria is far from defeated yet, Sin, so you shouldn't be, either. It's not becoming on a king."

 

 

Well. That changes things, a bit. It’s one thing to sit around staring at the wall all day when all that was waiting for him was hatred and rotten vegetables. But if there’s a _country_ yet, a country that _needs_ him…

 

Sinbad pushes himself up to sitting, eyes locked on Ja’far. “Did I ever do anything as good as the day I spared your life?”

 

 

At that, Ja'far blinks, a little too sleep-deprived not to be taken off-guard and thus promptly flush. "I… what?" 

 

 

Sinbad takes Ja’far’s face in his hands, brushes a kiss onto that freckled nose, and swings onto his feet. “Get some rest, I’m sure you need it. By the time you wake up, we’ll have a country again--no, we’ll have a _better_ country than we did before we went adventuring.” He’s never felt so _alive_.

 

 

Ah. Well, that worked out well. And sleep does sound nice, but--"At least get bathed and dressed properly," he protests, half-off the bed as he says it. "I'll draw a hot bath for you, you look--" Well, like a man that hasn't rolled out of bed in three days. Admittedly, Sinbad _still_  looks better than most.

 

 

“A bath?” Sinbad snorts, finger-combing his hair back into a loose knot, and stripping off the torn remnants of his tunic, stripping to a loose cloth around his hips and thighs. “While there are people without _food_? That’s not the kind of king Sindria needs. They’ll see all they need to see of me without the smell of lavender hanging over my head.”

 

 

It's not something to really argue with, especially if Sinbad is all the more motivated for it. "You have a point," Ja'far relents, and he sinks back onto the mattress again. He can't argue with how obscenely soft Sinbad's bed is either, or how _tired_  he is starting to realize he is. "Drakon can brief you on everything easily enough, but don't hesitate to come and find me if necessary."

 

 

Sinbad tosses the blanket over Ja’far, tucking him in firmly as a statement more than a matter of comfort. “If I’ve doubted anything,” he says gently, placing a kiss on the top of Ja’far’s head, “it was never you. Get some sleep. I built this country, I can rebuild it.”

 

 

_This_  is the Sin he knows and loves. 

 

A little, relieved smile curls his lips, and Ja'far lets himself relax for the first time in what feels like weeks. "I know you can," he simply replies before shutting his eyes. "But if you need me, I'm still here."

 

 

Ja’far is smiling, and that means, more than anything, that he’s doing the right thing. “I know you are,” he assures the younger man, a smile of his own on his lips. _And because I know you’re here, my friend, the thought of conquering the world outside holds no fear for me._

 

Without fear, without doubts, Sinbad opens the door.

 

~~


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

Sinbad hasn’t really slept in a week, and it’s been worth it. 

 

In some parts of the kingdom, the scars of the recent devastation show stark and ugly against the land, and the spirit of synergy, of _rebuilding_ , charges the people like nothing he’s ever seen. In others, it’s hard to tell if anything was ever wrong. 

 

What surprises him the most of all is the lack of any malice in them. Oh, here and there a young boy will urge him to hunt that bastard down and make an example of him, or a hotheaded soldier will want someone to blame for all that he’s lost. But by and large, Ja’far is right; most people seem to want their country back, their _king_ back, and damned if he isn’t going to do everything he can to keep them wanting it.

 

It’s a week before things are right enough that he can even think about throwing a party. Oh, certainly it’s good for morale, but no one wants to end a party by going back to a house that’s falling down. It takes all his energy, all his magic, and every trick Sinbad knows before he’s confident that no one in Sindria is sleeping in the cold. 

 

There’s a young man from Heliohapt that had fought tooth and nail, inspiring the soldiers around him no matter that he was foreign, and he’s the best find of all. Sinbad brings him back to the palace, and gives him the honor of slaughtering the biggest sea-beast they can find. Masrur and Hinahoho bring whole trees for the fire, and by the time it’s dark, there’s not a place in Sindria where the bonfire and barbecue isn’t visible. 

 

Sinbad is tired, but flushed with success, with wine, and with satisfaction when he sights Ja’far, being nearly dragged toward the circle of dancing revelry by Masrur on one side and Drakon’s wife on the other. They let him go when Sinbad shows up, relinquishing him to the King’s arms. Sinbad’s face lights up, and he bends to kiss the back of one pale hand. If Ja’far won’t now, he never will. “Dance with me?”

 

Ah, he's tired. 

 

On top of that, Ja'far has never been one for the parties and festivals that his king seems so inclined to throw, though he knows, very well, that this sort of thing is _necessary_ right now. He's surprised at how much he is enjoying himself, even if a bit of aged wine is helping with that, though he _really_ wishes he'd be allowed on the sidelines still, away from the bulk of people, and especially at least a little ways away from _Sinbad_ , who seems intent on making him blush.

 

He's happy for the heat of the fire and the dark of the night to hide the reddening of his cheeks, at any rate.

 

"You have half a dozen beautiful women that want a dance with you," Ja'far points out, though he doesn't quite yank his hand away. That new nuisance of a boy that Sinbad has decided to keep has long stolen his keffiyeh and hidden it as a part of some game, and so Ja'far has long since given up, let his robes slide loose down his shoulders and cling to his hips instead. He won't burn at night, at the very least. "You should go ask one of them, and give them the honor." 

 

“I danced with plenty of women before you showed up,” Sinbad says firmly, and tugs, his feet already starting to move. “I’ll doubtless dance with many more. But tonight, and while you give me the pleasure, I would have the honor of dancing with you.”

 

He still has the taste of a few of those girls on his lips, but Ja’far won’t mind. It’s not the kind of thing that has ever bothered him, really. It only bothers Ja’far when he makes bad decisions, not merely careless ones, and besides, it’s a _party_. Everyone around them is having fun, casting off their troubles as easily as Ja’far seems to have cast off his hat, and really, seeing him outside with the moonlight in his hair is just as much of a treat as anything.

 

Sinbad really is too much sometimes.

 

It's easy to get swept up in whatever _he_ wants to do, especially with a bit of alcohol to dull his sensibilities, and so Ja'far sighs, surrendering for the moment and letting Sinbad drag him along, never mind that such things in public are usually the _last_ thing he has on his list to do. "You're a horrible man," he calmly says, even as he laces their fingers together and sidles his way just a bit closer. "This is going to start a dozen rumors, and I'm going to start receiving letters to my office proclaiming undying hatred for the advisor that stole their beloved king." 

 

“Nonsense!” It would be impossible _not_ to smile, with Ja’far following his lead and in _public_ no less. Sinbad doesn’t even try, the breathless, exhilarated grin spreading across his face like the moon on the water. His earrings spin out to the side as he whirls the smaller man around, laughing. “You know as well as they do that I’m impossible to steal. Besides, they already call you my wife. Smack me around a little, it’s good for your image."

 

" _Who_ calls me your wife?" It's an indignant protest, or at least an attempt at one. Amazingly, it's difficult to sound angry when he's being spun and dipped like one of Sinbad's girls--ah, and he supposes he doesn't mind too much. Sinbad is _happy_ again, and it's all sorts of infectious. "If I smacked you around, you'd like it too much," Ja'far accuses, and he just barely stops himself from squeaking at how close he's drawn from time to time, his face flushing hot. " _Honestly_ , you need a _real_ wife." 

 

Sinbad spins Ja’far close, dips him low, and makes a face. “Don’t say things like that, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I never want for sex, love, or nagging, so why should I take a wife?”

 

They have a bit of an audience now, and he never _can_ resist showing off, so he grabs Ja’far and tosses him, catching him neatly and spinning him into another low dip. “Just enjoy the dance, Ja’far. Don’t be too eager for it to end.”

 

What is _that_ supposed to mean, exactly?

 

He's going to regret all of this in the morning, most certainly, especially when a great number of eyes turn to them--or Sinbad, Ja'far supposes. He's secondary, and it's much better that way when Sin is always so _bright_ , a veritable sun that stands out even in the tropics or the desert, and he's just grateful to be able to keep _up_ most of the time. Now is one of those times, and he wants to point out he's an assassin--and a clerk, if his still ink-stained hands are any indication-- _not_ a dancer, and certainly not fond of having to bite back squeaks of protest when he's dipped and spun and tossed with a hand grabbing at his robes to keep them _down_. 

 

Sinbad does it on purpose, without a doubt. He always did have a thing for his legs. 

 

"A wife isn't an 'ending' to anything," he can't help but point out, even as he's left clinging and on tiptoe half the time, and out of breath and flushed for all of it. "Don't you want children? A family?" 

 

Ja’far’s legs are _gorgeous_ , and Sinbad can barely keep his hands off of them. He can barely keep his hands off of them at the best of times, but now, in full view of everyone, it’s enough just to know that no one has ever touched them like he has. 

 

The song ends with Ja’far in Sinbad’s arms, both of them panting and sweating, Sinbad beaming down at him. “And here I thought you kept telling me to sire fewer children. Look around, Ja’far. What more family do I need?”

 

"Sire fewer _illegitimate_ children," Ja'far protests on a heaving breath, and he sags, his forehead thumping against Sinbad's shoulder in defeat. He's pleasantly dizzy, his pulse thrumming and even if he's now a sweaty, flushed mess in _public_ , it was worth it. He can admit that much, and he can also blame it on being drunk in the morning, even if he's not quite as tipsy as that would normally entail. "You are incorrigible, you know that, right?" 

 

The urge to nuzzle against Ja’far’s nose is strong, and only the knowledge that there are some things even the king isn’t supposed to do in _public_ restrains him. “I’m going to write a book,” he says instead, with a rakish grin. “Maybe ‘incorrigible’ could be the title.” With a last bow to the people clapping, he steers Ja’far away from the crowd, down one of Sindria’s many side streets. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

 

"Is it a book about yourself? Because that would be a terribly appropriate title, then," Ja'far grumbles, letting himself be drawn along with a long sigh. He can humor Sin tonight--just for tonight, if no other time, though really, what in this country hasn't he seen himself by now? 

 

“It is, as it happens,” Sinbad agrees cheerfully. “The chronicles of my adventures.” This is a terribly irresponsible use of his own magic, and doubtless Ja’far will tell him so, but at the moment, Sinbad doesn’t care. The wind gathers, and in a flurry of their clothing they’re whirling to hover above the city, the bonfire just a flicker of light below, Sinbad’s arm tight around Ja’far’s waist. “Look,” he says, leaning close to his advisor’s ear. “Look what we saved.”

 

Sin's right; any other night, he'd scold him for wasting magoi over such a _trivial_ thing, but right then, it doesn't seem so very trivial at all.

 

It's hardly the same city they came home to, a city of wreckage and ruins in such a short period of time. _Already_ , it's as new and alive as Ja'far remembers it, and that prompts a little thrill down his spine, both pride and relief contributing. 

 

"… Your country is as beautiful as always," Ja'far says, lifting his head to spare Sinbad a wry smile. "Though if you're writing a book about your adventures, does that mean you're intent on ending them, and staying here for now? I will believe it when I see it." 

 

Sinbad thinks before he speaks for once, choosing his words slowly and with care. “What I wanted when I built Sindria, when I conceived of the idea of Sindria...was a place that I’d never want to leave, because there was no greater pleasure anywhere in the world that I couldn’t find by staying home.” He leans down, confident that miles above the world, they’re alone enough, and nuzzles his nose against Ja’far’s. “I think it’s time I stopped just dreaming about it and made it happen.”

 

Ah. That's… a nice answer.

 

Ja'far's smile softens, just a bit, and he lifts a hand, his knuckles brushing absently against Sinbad's cheek. "That," he simply says, "is why you are a good king, and why your people love you. They want you to stay. You see how happy they are when you are here with them." 

 

“They give me strength.” The only time he’d felt so alive as when he’d rebuilt the country had been when he’d built it in the first place, goatherders and fishwives coming to stare, to tell him he’d never finish, then asking almost shyly if they could come too. “Though...I’m sorry, my friend. I think our adventures together are at an end.” Sinbad squeezes Ja’far’s waist tight, closing his eyes as they start to descend. “I don’t think I’ll ever again be able to leave Sindria in anyone’s hands but yours, if I should be called away on important business.”

 

"I wouldn't expect you to do any differently." It's a relief, in all honesty, that Sinbad is thinking _logically_ regarding such things. Ja'far's toes hit the ground first, and he wobbles for a moment until he can set his feet entirely, solidly down. "In fact, I would be terribly upset with you, if you _did_ leave someone else in charge." His hands clasp as he bows his head. "You know I am honored that you would entrust your country to me in your absence, my king."

 

“And I am honored,” Sinbad responds, bowing equally low, “to be blessed with so trustworthy an advisor. You could have your pick of countries, my friend. That you continue to grace mine with your presence honors me no less than the return of all my subjects.” As he straightens, his eye twinkles. “As long as we’re being formal.”

 

"I have discriminating tastes." Ja'far might be smirking, just a little bit, as he lifts his head. "And there is no greater country than Sindria. Why would I settle for serving a less than adequate king?" 

 

If there’s a hint of pink in Sinbad’s cheeks, at least the dark of the night will hide it. 

 

It doesn’t say much for his ego that those words make him want Ja’far so _much_ , but maybe that’s the stress of the week, the high from the flying and dancing finally coming down, and the warmth of Ja’far when the night is so cold, and the praise and that little _smirk_ are just the last straw. Sinbad moves, arms wrapping around Ja’far, hands sliding down to his ass to squeeze, and that’s not _enough_. He picks the smaller man up, holding him against the wall, and hovers, an inch away from his lips. “Stop me now,” he says hoarsely, eyes searching the flickering black ones for a hint, “if you want me to stop at all.”

 

When Sinbad does things like this, it's always a rush, and not always a welcomed one, for how fast his blood pumps and how light his head suddenly becomes. Now is no different--now, with Sinbad so _warm_ against him, grasping him so tightly and holding him as if he weighs nothing at all. 

 

This time, at least, it's welcomed. 

 

"I don't." Ja'far shivers, wriggles, his hands grasping for the other man's hair, tugging as his lips part with a fast, breathy exhale. He wants to blame the wine. He wants to blame relief, the exhilaration of feeling Sinbad's magic around him, _through him_ as if they truly are connected that way, but it all boils down to something far more simple than that. It's just _Sinbad_ , after all.

 

There’s no better feeling than Ja’far’s thighs, soft and warm and supple under his hands. Sinbad spreads them open, the weight of him holding Ja’far against the wall, not that he needs much strength to do so, and it’s a relief that Ja’far is grasping at him, urging him on, because even though Ja’far feels so strongly sometimes about pushing him away, there’s nowhere Sinbad wants to be more than _inside_ the other man.

 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing hot, messy, urgent kisses against Ja’far’s neck as he hikes up his robes, pulls himself out, and god, he’s already so hard. “Sorry, it’s going to be too much, I can’t wait long--”

 

If anything, that warning only serves to make his own cock swell, the sudden _need_ for it twisting hot and heavy in his belly. Ja'far swallows hard, throat bobbing underneath the Sinbad's mouth as his head falls back to press against cool stone. "It's fine," he rasps out, his toes curling as his thighs are spread, breath a ragged, strained thing as he clings to Sinbad's neck and fists his hands into his hair. "I want it, too." 

 

Ah, this is the Ja’far that Sinbad only gets to see once in a blue moon, and no one else gets to see at all. There are those little moments when Ja’far pushes down instead of wriggling away, when there’s a hint of wild joy in the little hisses and sobs that come out of his mouth, when Sinbad is sure he’s going to beg for a rest but he begs for _more_ instead. This is the most sensual Ja’far ever gets, when he succumbs to what he wants, what he _needs_ , and Sinbad knows without a doubt that he’s the only man Ja’far has ever needed anything of the kind from.

 

God, that makes him hard.

 

It’s not the fine oils he keeps by his bedside, or even the pot of aloe they carry on the road, and Sinbad is sure Ja’far will turn up his nose as he spits into his hand, with hardly the patience to slick the head of his cock before he pushes in, the sheer overwhelming _need_ to be inside an overpowering, dominating force. “Ahh--Ja’far, you--ah, _god_ \--”

 

There's no helping the mindless sob that pulls from his throat, because Sinbad is _right_ \--it's too much, _far_ too much. The tremor that rakes through Ja'far slides mostly to his legs, thighs quivering, calf muscles bunching tight just at that initial stretch, the head of Sinbad's cock pushing inside enough to make his knees buckle if he had been standing. His mouth falls open, willing long, deep draughts of breath into his lungs as Sinbad sinks into him, filling him so deeply that he can't _think_ , save for the dizzying idea of wriggling down, a thing that makes him whine and cling that much tighter even as he sags weakly back into the wall. 

 

"S… Sin--" It's too tight, not slick enough to be perfect, and Ja'far's teeth sink into his lower lip as he shuts his eyes, sweat beading on his brow from the _effort_ of taking him. " _Please_."

 

The way Ja’far trembles around him should be _illegal_. Sinbad would outlaw it himself if it weren’t so damned _good_ , so damned _tight_ , so damned _perfect_ around his cock and ah, there’s no way he’s going to last as long as he wants to. That’s fine, it can’t be good enough for Ja’far like this no matter _how_ he likes a little pain with his pleasure, so the least Sinbad can do is be quick. With how tightly Ja’far is squeezing around him, that’s hardly an issue. “It’s all right,” he murmurs against Ja’far’s ear, mindless, urgent kisses pressed against his neck as he pants. “Just--a little longer, I’ll take care of you--”

 

That promise draws out another, breathy whimper. Ja'far frantically nods, mindless and eager, no matter how he _already_ feels taken care of, what with how stuffed full he is--no matter if it _hurts_ , it's still Sin, still good with the way he kisses at his neck and holds him and pulls him down like he's something precious and wanted. "'s fine," he gasps out, clutching at Sinbad's hair to keep the man's mouth at his throat, squirming to hold tightly to Sinbad's sides with his thighs. Ah, god, he feels stretched even _wider_ like that, and he gulps for air, lashes fluttering. "It's good, j-just take what you want--"

 

It’s permission, release, and Sinbad’s mind turns off. 

 

He knows dimly that he’s too rough, that those hard deep thrusts are punishing under the best of conditions and that they _can’t_ be comfortable now, but with the way Ja’far clings to him, the way Ja’far’s legs wrap around him, there’s nothing else he can _do_. 

 

He spills with a soft, broken cry, back arched, hands bruisingly tight on Ja’far’s waist, buried so deep inside it feels like there’s no space at all between them. He heaves a shuddering, aching breath, the sweat trickling down his back, and he’s as gentle as he can when he pulls out and drops to his knees, hands on Ja’far’s hips to hold him up. “Now you take what you want,” he murmurs, and closes his lips around the head of Ja’far’s cock.

 

He can't even stand.

 

His legs are buckling, and if not for Sinbad's hands on his hips--bruised, flinching beneath the touch from the lingering shocks of Sinbad being so deeply inside of him--he knows he would be on the ground in a heap. Ja'far still thinks he might end up there, considering how _good_ the sudden slide of Sinbad's mouth around him feels, and he chokes on a breath, lurching forward as his hands claw at the other man's hair, his body bowing forward before he can help himself. 

 

It's obscene, how good it feels, no matter the sore ache that makes his body tremble, and the simply _lewd_ reminder of it all in the form of Sinbad's seed trickling down his thighs. If there's any shred of modesty left in him, it's gone now when the thought of that makes him _harder_ , makes him want to be buried that much deeper between Sin's lips. He can't think. Can't do anything else beyond let his hips rut forward, sliding over Sinbad's tongue, and it's with a breathless, ragged sob that he comes, bent forward and trembling, grasp white-knuckled and his feet arched so high that he knows he'll feel cramps from that for _hours_.

 

The blood pounds in Sinbad’s ears, everything around them a fever pitch that only slowly, _slowly_ subsides. His arms are starting to ache from holding Ja’far against the wall, but ah, standing suddenly feels rather far beyond him. He swallows, making a face as he misses a bit trickling down his chin--ah, if the people could only see their king--but he doesn’t have a hand to spare as he lowers Ja’far down onto his lap, curling his arms around the younger man. 

 

Normally he’d say something, some stupidly romantic thing that Ja’far only lets him get away with in these moments, but just like this, their panting breaths the only sound, the night is perfect. He can afford to hold his tongue for a minute.

 

It's Ja'far who eventually drags an unsteady hand up, thumbing away the mess that trickles down Sinbad's chin--never mind the flush that colors his own cheeks for it, or the desire to apologize through his embarrassment. He could say a dozen other things, really. All of them pertain to how it isn't proper for a king to be with his advisor like this, or how Sin should find a wife already if he is planning to finally settle down for more than five minutes…

 

All of it can wait, he supposes, because Sinbad is warm and comfortable and tonight, Ja'far is feeling a bit selfish.

 

"If you'll have me tonight," is the murmur he settles for instead, "I will warm your bed, back in the palace."

 

Sinbad bows his head, resting his forehead against Ja’far’s, a rueful smile on his face. “Tonight,” he agrees, “and any night you deign to grace it with your presence. And when you say things like that, you make me want to use all the magoi in Sindria to fly there.”

 

_If only you were a woman._

 

It’s a thought he’s had a hundred times before, but never as potent as now. He can picture it so _well_ , dancing with the wife he’d be _proud_ to take, kissing that beloved mouth and uncaring of who watches, moonlit hair spread across his pillow nightly instead of once a year. 

 

Ah, well. It’s a beautiful dream, and there’s magic in the world. For a boy who once starved to become king, another faraway dream doesn’t seem so impossible.

 

"Please don't." Even though Ja'far knows walking will be a task indeed. "You would be left quite the invalid afterwards, and I much prefer you in good health." Ja'far shifts his way closer, deeper into Sinbad's lap as he absently rubs his cheek against the man's shoulder. "Tomorrow will be an easy day. We can afford a night like this."

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

He wants to kill that Magi.

 

Ja'far has scarcely felt so much _frustration_ , and it all has to do with an opponent he can't even _touch_. He desperately wishes Sinbad had let him kill Judal the one time that he had managed to knock him flat on his back, after shoving his wand away and holding a blade at his throat. Now, Ja'far knows, he'll never get another easy chance--though it doesn't stop him from trying, not when Judal shows up so casually within Sindria, and immediately picks a fight.

 

"I'm here to see Sinbad," is the purr from the little wretch, and Ja'far sees madness in his eyes more clearly than he ever has. Even if only a scarce few months have passed since first meeting the Magi, there's no doubt that Al-Sarmen's hold has tightened, a noose around his neck cutting off what little sanity he had left. "I don't need you in the way."

 

He attacks with all his strength, and it isn't enough. What match is he, after all, for a Magi's infinite resources? Take away the brat's magic, and it would be another story, but instead, he's left tangled within his own wires--solidly frozen, looped about his wrists and neck and every other length of his body, and he hears Judal _laughing_ as he leaves, presumably off to find Sin.

'

Ja'far hopes, desperately, that it's merely a 'recreational' visit, and not something far worse.

 

For hours, he strains to listen, to try and hear anything that sounds like violence or buildings crumbling. There's nothing, and that's a relief, at least, even if in those hours he waits the whole time for the ice to melt, finding out very quickly that basic fire magic does little for a Magi of water's skill. It's not normal ice, of course it wouldn't be, and so by the time it finally melts enough for him to untangle himself, he's shivering, chilled to the bone with his limbs numb and aching.

 

A hot bath. He just wants a hot bath. The silence and peace around the palace is tell-tale, and he is sure, very sure, that Sinbad has found _entertainment_ in Judal's presence, no matter their previous encounters.

 

Ja'far wants nothing to do with it. 

 

By the time Sinbad manages to yank himself free of the long daggers of ice, he’s beyond injured in favor of being furious. Yamuraiha is good, but all she can do is heal his wounds. Even that can’t warm him up, and it’s with a limping, bitter ferocity that he makes his way to the baths.

 

He’s not alone, he sees immediately, and ah, Ja’far has every right to be mad at him. If he’d only let Ja’far kill the magi when he’d had the chance, they’d have _avoided_ all this nonsense. He hisses as he lowers himself into the bath, closing his eyes as it starts to wash away the dried blood and thaw his bones. “You can yell at me later,” he groans, leaning his head back against the wall. “Just let me thaw first. Little bastard got me good.”

 

While Ja'far isn't _happy_ to see his king appear less sated and more angry (and a bit injured, apparently), he is pleased to know that the wool hasn't been entirely cast over Sinbad's eyes yet. "You aren't the only one." He takes longer than Sinbad to finish undressing, folding his robes properly before he gingerly sinks into the water across from Sinbad, shivering as the heat slowly washes over him. "Please tell me you sent him away."

 

Sinbad snorts, sliding farther down until just his neck is left above water. “Tried. He got a bit...angry.” He tries to move an arm, and winces as it shoots pain up his shoulder. God, it feels like getting stabbed all over again. “Yamuraiha did her best, but it’ll take a few days before I’m tossing bricks around again. You all right?”

 

"I'm fine." It's definitely more his pride that stings. An injury would have been better, because at least it would have meant he was worth more of the Magi's _time_. Ja'far snorts, sinking down lower and drawing his knees to his chest. "What did he want, anyway? Other than to string me up like a puppet for hours and stab you on the way out." 

 

“Ah, what’s coming to be the usual, I think.” Sinbad sort of wants to sink under the water completely, but that’s not really becoming for a king, even an injured one in the privacy of his own bathhouse. “You know, I don’t mind when he tells me what an idiot I am for not accepting his offer, and I think I even mind the stabbing less than him calling Sindria a dump. I worked hard on this country.”

 

Ja'far prickles immediately at that. "He called Sindria a _dump?_ " He wants to track the wretch down and slit his throat more than ever. "How _dare_ he." Ah, he reminds himself that water is certainly not a place to start conducting electricity, no matter how _angry_ those words make him. 

 

Sinbad sighs, bringing wet hands up to scrub over his face. “I was a fool to stop you from killing him. We’re not likely to get another chance like that.” Then, he snorts. “Or maybe we will. He’s not exactly a genius.”

 

"You're finally realizing that." Ja'far slinks down a bit further, eyes slitting as he lets the water come up over his nose for all of a moment. "He's dumb as a rock. Al-Sarmen wants to keep him that way." 

 

Sinbad slowly extends a leg, nudging Ja’far with his toe. “They’re stupid, too. They let the smartest one get away and they kept the dullard. Didn’t know a good thing when they had it.”

 

Ja'far snorts at that, and he stretches a leg of his own out to prod right back. "They want for magicians, not assassins." 

 

“Like I said. The smartest thing I ever did was investing in you.” Pain or not, Sinbad moves slowly through the water, moving to rest his head on Ja’far’s shoulder now that he’s reasonably certain he won’t get punched for it.

 

Ah, well. At least Sinbad didn't pet and coddle the Magi today like some well-loved pet. 

 

Ja'far's head slowly tips to the side, resting against Sinbad's as he shuts his eyes, letting the heat of the water fully sink into his bones. "I'm sure you have wiser investments. I'm merely your clerk, after all."

 

Sinbad snorts. “My clerk who’s more responsible for running the kingdom than I am. Why won’t you let me knight you?” He’d offered. They could have done it at any of the events surrounding the rebuilding. Or hell, he’d throw a separate party just for that.

 

"It's unnecessary. I can do my job just as well now without it." Ja'far gives him a light nudge with his elbow. "Also, there wouldn't _be_ a kingdom without you, so my responsibilities are only secondary." 

 

“But the people love you. They’d like to see you rewarded.” Sinbad shoves back, nuzzling his head against Ja’far’s neck. “I do too. It’s just so hard to shop for you.”

 

Ja'far's eyes roll skyward at that. "What makes you think you need to buy me anything?" 

 

Sinbad sighs. “It’s not about _money_.” Certainly it’s not, because he knows it’s not about money for Ja’far. “If there’s anything you want...just tell me, and it’s yours. Unless you want me to take a wife,” he adds belatedly. “But anything else.”

 

"You _really_ do hate that concept, don't you." Ja'far idly catches a strand of Sinbad's hair that's soaking in the water, giving it a gentle tug. "I want for nothing. I don't need titles, or any other 'rewards' for doing my job. I would appreciate it if you kept your involvement with that Magi to a minimum from now on, but well…"

 

“Do you truly want for nothing?” Sinbad smiles, tucking his cheek against Ja’far’s shoulder, scooting a bit closer. “There’s nothing that makes me happier than being like this with you. There are some things that make me as happy, but nothing that goes beyond this.”

 

"… That's a little much, don't you think?" His eyes lid, and his fingers twist slowly around the strand of hair in his grasp. "You have your country flourishing again, dozens of women in your lap, all the gold you've ever wanted--those are the things I would have thought you'd take more pleasure in." 

 

“I take pleasure in them,” Sinbad agrees readily. “You know better than anyone that I do. But...not _more_ pleasure, I think.” He turns just enough to press a quick, chaste kiss to a lightly freckled shoulder. “Even a king can appreciate a quiet moment.”

 

"I think," Ja'far eventually allows, "that perhaps you are finally mellowing in your old age." 

 

“You take that back.”

 

"I think that's a grey hair."

 

“I lied, I’ll take the girls and wine and wealth.”

 

"No, really, I think it's a grey hair." Ja'far pokes at Sinbad's scalp, plucking at the hair in question. "Hmm, maybe it's stress related. At least you don't have wrinkles yet."

 

Sinbad bats the questing hand away, scowling. “Stop that. Don’t you know that if you pluck one out, three more grow in?” he demands, carefully not looking at the hair in question. “Not that there’s even one.”

 

"I've never heard that." Considering the color of his own hair, there's little point in worrying, after all. "Mm, well, you better hope that you look distinguished with grey hair as time goes on."

 

“Damn it, I’m twenty-four, I’m hardly old!” Sinbad pokes Ja’far’s side, irritated, but not inclined to move away from the warmth and softness of his body. “If I have aches, it’s because I was stabbed nine times today.”

 

"I didn't mention aches--just grey hair and wrinkles." Ja'far blinks over at him innocently. "Have you been having more aches and pains recently, Sin?" 

 

“You’re very mean to a master that got injured so badly today,” Sinbad mutters. “You’re going to make it up to me, you know.”

 

_And_ you _were so smitten with that Magi for at least a pair of hours that you didn't realize my absence._ Ja'far prefers not to bring it up, even if it does raise his hackles again, just a bit. "Am I, Your Majesty?" His eyebrows arch. "What would you have me do?" 

 

Sinbad huffs. “You could at least use those talented fingers to give me a massage. You know equipping a djinn always gives me cramps when the scales go away.”

 

"All the more reason to not allow him around any longer," Ja'far murmurs, and he gives Sinbad's shoulder a sympathetic tap. "Turn around, then, and rest your head on the edge, unless you'd rather plant yourself face first into a bed." 

 

“You’re acting like I invited him over for tea,” Sinbad grumbles, turning around to drape his arms over the side of the tub. As nice as it sounds to have Ja’far in his bed, moving doesn’t sound nice at _all_. “The last two times I’ve seen him we _were_ trying to kill each other, in case that slipped your mind.”

 

"He invited himself over for tea," Ja'far points out as his hands immediately fall upon Sinbad's shoulders, kneading his fingers in hard and firm. A little sigh, and he brushes Sinbad's hair aside with a slow brush of one hand. "I'm _worried_ , in case that is not quite coming across," he tries again. "Because I still wonder if you think he is something to be fixed, even now." 

 

Sinbad sighs, slumping forward against the tub. There had been a few moments, if he’s being honest, when the look in those glinting red eyes had seemed so young, so fragile, so _shattered_ , and he’s not great at resisting a project. “Just…” 

 

He sighs again, brow furrowed as he thinks. “Just because I think there’s a chance I could fix him doesn’t mean I’m going to risk it. Nothing is more important than what I’m trying to build here.”

 

Ja'far isn't sure he _quite_ believes that.

 

Nevertheless, he falls silent for the moment, his hands sweeping down the hard muscles of Sinbad's back, working into the tension there with swift precision. "When I looked at him today," he finally says, "it wasn't the same as looking at him weeks ago, before Partevia." 

 

Ah, Ja’far’s hands are _perfect_ , and exactly what Sinbad had needed. Healing and soaking are all very well, but there’s something about the laying on of hands that does more for him than all of Yamuraiha’s magic. “Even that wasn’t the same as the first time. I don’t think...I don’t think they’d touched him, then. I think they hurt him badly, after that. He said something about Kouen.”

 

Ja'far scarcely resists the urge to scoff. "And you believe him." Then again, what child--even a crazed one of Al-Sarmen--deserves something like that? He shakes his head, giving Sinbad's hair a gentle tug. "Turn around, give me your arm." 

 

Sinbad turns, handing Ja’far his arm. His brow furrows, and his eyes are troubled as they seek out Ja’far’s. “You wouldn’t believe that of them? After what they did to your legs?”

 

He starts at the bicep, kneading and pressing in search of tension to abate. "I would believe it of _Al-Sarmen._ I know little of the Kou empire's tendencies in such things. But… still. Perhaps he is merely playing it up for your sympathy." Ja'far snorts a little, amused, as his hands slide down further in their massage. "And you don't know what happened to my legs." 

 

Sinbad sort of wants to protest that Judal hadn’t said it for sympathy, he’d just mentioned it in passing, and he hadn’t _given_ the magi any encouragement or sympathy for it, but ah, that’s not a fight he wants to have. Not after Partevia. 

 

Instead, he slumps further against the edge of the tub, going boneless with the relief of the massage. “I always figured you’d tell me when the pain of it faded.” He snorts. “Then I forgot to ask.”

 

"It's not important, anyway." His fingers methodically trace down to Sinbad's wrist, then to his hand, working each finger individually. "I'm sure they've done horrible things to him. I just can't pity him."

 

“I can pity him without thinking it’s forgivable. It certainly doesn’t excuse him, not from Partevia. And not from hurting you.” Ah, Ja’far’s hands never feel better than when they’re massaging his hands, soft and delicate touches that somehow manage to hit every sore spot and relax it away. “Does this mean you’re never going to tell me?”

 

Ah, well. As long as Sin isn't giving the brat excuses, Ja'far supposes. "Are you really that curious?" His head tilts, and he releases that hand to move onto the other. Though really, _anything_ is better than talking of Judal and his penchant for bringing about chaos.

 

Better, that they’ve moved on from talking about infuriating, cruel, mad Judal with the broken bird look in his eyes. Sinbad shrugs, giving Ja’far his other hand. “I’d like to know. I’ve kissed those scars enough. Is it that bad a memory? I wouldn’t want to keep reminding you of something truly awful.”

 

"You haven't kissed them _that_ much," Ja'far mutters, snorting as he digs his thumbs into the back of Sinbad's hand. "It isn't that bad of a memory. Merely gory, and pointless, as are most of Al-Sarmen's tricks."

 

Sinbad lets out a little hiss as a knot of tension he hadn’t known he had--how does Ja’far find them so easily, anyway?--dissolves under a particularly deep push. “I’ve never seen them on any other agent we’ve captured. And don’t say things like that if you don’t want me to spend the next twelve hours between your legs.”

 

It isn't _so_ bad of a thought, though Ja'far supposes there are more constructive things to be done, too, especially when it comes to making up for the hours he lost previously. "Ah… probably because they've perfected it since then. Mine was an impromptu punishment that just happened to offer some improvement by the end of it all." He traces a finger up one of the corded muscles of Sinbad's forearm. "They sewed me up like a rag doll. It was very painful, and I certainly didn't try and run away again after that. I couldn't _move_ for weeks." 

 

Sinbad can picture it. He can picture the little slip of a thing Ja’far had been when they’d first met, being held down and sliced open as he screamed--or maybe he hadn’t screamed. Maybe he’d given them the tight-lipped silence. Sinbad banishes the thought, forgoing the rest of the massage in favor of turning and tugging Ja’far into his lap. “I never asked,” he says quietly, pressing another soft kiss to Ja’far’s shoulder, “and you don’t have to tell me, but…” Ah, there’s no delicate way to put this. “I think I was your first man.”

 

Why is _this_ being brought up? Ja'far sighs to mitigate the flush on his cheeks, even as he settles himself back against Sinbad comfortably. "You were. Does it matter?" He turns his head slightly to _look_ at the other man. "They never touched me like that. I daresay I'm not to their taste… or, well, much of anyone's." _Thankfully._

 

It is a relief, and Sinbad’s arms tighten around the smaller man’s torso. “I’m glad. I know you...ah, well.” 

 

He chuckles ruefully, stroking a thumb down Ja’far’s arm. “Thank you for giving me a third chance. You’re very much to _my_ taste, you know.”

 

Ja'far snorts at that, and he shifts again with a put out exhale to follow. He supposes he should find it flattering, but _honestly_ … "So I can _tell_. Even if that isn't entirely true, I'm really not the type you normally enjoy taking to your bed." _Ironically, that Magi is._

 

Sinbad grimaces, a hand stealing between them to adjust himself to a slightly less offensive angle. Usually he’d push the issue but it’s been a long day for both of them, and the peace of the evening is worth it. “Sorry. I’ll be good. And you know...someone pretty who is smart, clever, and sees right through me...it’s a very specialized type. Maybe it’s everyone else who falls short.”

 

"You're flattering me too much--what do you want?" It's halfway to a joke, at least. Ja'far leans back again, his head resting against Sinbad's shoulder. If Sinbad says he'll behave, he'll take his word for it (and if he does keep his word, maybe give him a bit of leeway later). 

 

Sinbad blinks. “I’d flatter you like this every day if you didn’t take offense to it,” he says truthfully. “And I’d take you to bed every night if I didn’t bore you so.”

 

"… I don't take offense to it." Does he really sound like that? Ja'far sighs, shutting his eyes. "Nor do you bore me. Well, the idea of sex does, but you never have. It's more… hmm, the opposite, really? Aren't I boring? I don't exactly see the point in doing it so much, after all." 

 

“You’ve never bored me.” Sinbad leans forward, nudging his nose against Ja’far’s ear affectionately. “As for the frequency, well, you know I’m an addict. When something is good, I want it all the time. And when it’s as good as you, I never stop wanting it.”

 

"It can't be _that_ good," Ja'far protests, even as he tilts his head back, butting it gently underneath Sinbad's chin. "I don't even know what I'm doing." _I just follow your lead, as with most things._

 

“Mmm, but you don’t need to.” It’s hard to keep the touching strictly platonic, but Sinbad is _trying_ , keeping the gentle strokes of his hands to Ja’far’s arms. “There’s something very...naturally sensual about you.” Sinbad laughs, and with a soft kiss to the shell of Ja’far’s ear, admits, “Let’s change the subject, or this is going to get more difficult for me.” Being good is exhausting.

 

Ja'far almost wants to keep talking about it, just to see how long Sinbad _can_ stand it. Maybe if he times it and sets a limit, he can allow certain things. He really is mean at times, when it comes down to it. "It isn't already?" he lightly prods, and a slow, careful shift back making himself rub back against the hard-- _harder_ , now--line of Sinbad's cock. "You really are an addict." 

 

Sinbad hisses out a shaky little breath, hands flexing unconsciously. He shifts, shoving his cock down between his legs, squeezing them together. _Ha. You’re testing me, but I can do this. I’m not a teenager anymore._ “I know. I can’t help it, you’re addictive.”

 

Ja'far even goes as far to let out a little disappointed sound, and sags backwards on a sigh. "Are you sure it's me, and not any random person that ends up in your lap? Honestly, I think sometimes you just would rather grab my legs all day." Just mentioning them is probably enough.

 

Ah, Ja’far’s not playing _fair_. Sinbad sort of watches his hands move helplessly, gliding through the water to rest on Ja’far’s legs, trailing up and down his thighs-- _stick to the outer thighs, you’re not strong enough to go farther--_

 

In some ways the outer thighs are worse, curvy and soft and sweet in all the right places, like a ripe peach he just wants to bite into, and Sinbad groans. He swallows hard, cursing his inability to resist, well, practically any kind of temptation, but _especially_ Ja’far’s legs. “Tell me again about the paperwork you need for tomorrow,” he tries desperately.

 

Ja'far supposes he should be kinder to his king.

 

On the other hand, this is just a bit of revenge, and it's sort of satisfying to watch Sinbad squirm for once--and it's endearing that he's _trying_ , at the very least. "We need to review this month's budget, as well as our import standings… I also made a more thorough walk-through of the mercantile district for taxation purposes, so you'll need to go over that, as well." His eyes lid, and he dips a hand down, idly sliding it over the back of one of Sinbad's, a subtle push and guide to the inside of one thigh. "You say you always enjoy touching these scars, I'm amazed you aren't right now." 

 

A frustrated little huff of air makes its way out through Sinbad’s nose, even as he’s helpless to resist the slide of his hand down, close, brushing against those old, half-healed scars and the sweet curve of obscenely soft flesh around them. “Have I wronged you recently?” he asks, half-joking. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

 

"Mm, it's merely a test." Ja'far can't help but shiver, the slide of Sinbad's hand impossible _not_ to enjoy when he's brought it on himself, and his legs fall open a bit further as he nestles back into the other man's chest. "You've been good. You don't have to be anymore, if that's what you want." 

 

Sinbad understands tests. He’s been tested damn near every day of his life, even if he’s not always sure by whom or what for, and this is no exception. He’s mastered those tests, those dungeons and challenges, and he can master this, too.

 

Maybe

 

His thumb strokes over the puckered edge of the scar, his other hand sliding up, and he blinks when his finger tries to hook into a ring that isn’t _there_. He rubs over the nipple, asking, “When did you take it out?”

 

Ja'far twitches a bit underneath that particular touch, his nerves responding as if there still was a ring there to be tugged upon. "Awhile ago," he grumbles. "I got fed up with you trying to reach underneath my shirt at night and grab it. You'd do it in your sleep, too, you know." 

 

Sinbad tries not to pout. Instead, he tugs, pinching, and murmurs, “Then I’ll just have to do this extra hard to remind you how much you liked it when I played with it.” Sometimes. Ah, how can Ja’far blame a man for what he does in his sleep, anyway?

 

The twitch turns to a shudder, and Ja'far's hands lift to Sinbad's knees, squeezing, as if that will somehow mitigate the sensation. "That's really… ahh, not _too_ hard," he protests as his voice breaks into a squeak, face flushing hot as he squirms. He takes it back--Sinbad needs to behave.

 

Sinbad can’t really help the way he shifts, cock pressing up against the curve of Ja’far’s ass, and he pinches gently, stroking up and down the soft inside of those lewd, inviting thighs. Much better, he decides, to make Ja’far the one that’s squirming. “Sorry, you like it better like this?”

 

Another shiver, and Ja'far nods, letting his head loll back against Sinbad's shoulder with a slow, albeit broken rush of breath. That _does_ feel good; he'd be fool to try and say otherwise. He likes the way Sinbad's fingers feel on his skin, warm and calloused, never mind the slosh of water around them. His nipple _throbs_ a bit from the attention, and he bites his lip, wishing, briefly, that he hadn't taken that ring out after all. Ah, but it's probably completely healed up now, so there's nothing that can be done, unless… "Maybe I'll let you pierce it again." _Eventually_. 

 

Some days (most days), Sinbad has no idea what he’d done to earn the right to have Ja’far in his bed. 

 

True, he doesn’t get it very _often_ , but that’s more than made up for on the few occasions he’s had it, and now he presses gentle kisses along the pale column of that neck, teasing and stroking and pressing up behind him just a _little_ , just enough to take the edge off. “Save it,” he rumbles, “for when I do something really impressive.”

 

"I will have my pick, then." With a soft sigh, Ja'far arches his back, rocking back against the hard line of Sinbad's cock. "Never mind that it isn't every day that a king can so swiftly save his country and turn it into something even _better_."

 

Vaguely, Sinbad wonders at what point he’d stopped being good and started actually having sex with Ja’far, because he’s got one hand on a nipple and one on a thigh and his cock is nudging against Ja’far’s ass and Ja’far is rocking back on it, and that’s...pretty far from being good. Ah, well. Temptation is _difficult_ , far worse than any dungeon he’s faced. “Never mind that I would have let it crumble if my advisor hadn’t pulled my head out of my ass.”

 

Ja'far snorts, turning his head aside to bury it into the side of Sinbad's neck, exhaling hot and fast when he wriggles just _so_ , and Sinbad's cock slips lower, sliding along the cleft of his ass. A careful arch, and it catches against his hole, just enough to make his breath hitch. "None of that matters, because you _didn't_ let it crumble." 

 

“I,” Sinbad says, in a low, rumbling purr, “am going to build the finest country the world has ever seen.” He’s not even sure which of them is doing the teasing now, only that what they’re doing feels _good_. He curls his hand, squeezing that soft, supple thigh, pulling it just a bit to the side so Ja’far’s legs are spread, straddling his own, and pushes forward just a bit, enough that the head of his cock presses, almost pops inside, and slides away again. “And if you see me making terrible decisions, well, you’re the only person who’s allowed to question them.” _Give me an award for coherent conversation right now, I deserve it._

 

A low, purring groan pulls from Ja'far's throat, his head tipping back as he sucks in a slow, deep breath of air. "Fortunately," he pants out, his eyes fluttering as his hands lift to grasp at Sinbad's arms, white-knuckled at the press of the man's cock, then relaxing again as it slides away, leaving him to strangle down a whimper, "you have become a far better judge of things. It's a rare day, that I have to keep you in check beyond reminding you of schedules." He _likes_ this, being nestled so securely back into Sinbad's chest, his legs spread over the man's lap and god, Sin is so _close_ to being inside of him. _Go on already_ , the arch of his back says, and Ja'far bites his lip with another, tiny shudder, as he twists to grind his hips back again.

 

Sinbad’s lips stretch wide into a lazy, saturnine grin. This is the part he likes best, _always_ likes best, when Ja’far wants him so badly that he’s not afraid to show it, not afraid to arch back and act like a normal person--at least, a person that really likes sex. It’s a challenge, but also an _achievement_ to get Ja’far to this point, and Sinbad likes nothing better than to revel in it. He nuzzles into Ja’far’s neck, nibbling and suckling, and can’t help but laugh a little as he murmurs, “I think having me rubbing against you here is more fun for me than for you.” _Go on, take what you want, you’re never more beautiful than when you’re being selfish._

 

Ja'far huffs at that, his own head turning aside to spare a nip at the curve of Sinbad's jaw, teeth gently scraping. "You'd be surprised," he sighs, even as his eyes lid, and his hips lift just a bit more and he slides a hand back, fumbling to wrap his fingers loosely around the base of Sinbad's cock. It's a bit of a rush, being so _forward_ about what he wants, and certainly a rare thing. After all that has happened as of late, though, Ja'far figures he can afford it--especially when it feels _good_.

 

It's still too much, no matter how much he wants it. That first, aching stretch when the head of Sinbad's cock presses inside is enough to leave him gasping, and he only manages the first few inches before his legs tremble, tense and aching as he sags back with a whimper, his head lolling over Sinbad's shoulder as he flushes hot. "Help," he breathes, his hands sliding to claw at the other man's forearms, his entire body a tight, quivering thing.

 

Immediately, Sinbad’s hands come up, steadying Ja’far, holding him easily, keeping him from taking too much, to fast. He groans at the _stretch_ of it, the indescribable tightness of Ja’far squeezing around his cock; it can’t feel good, he’s almost _sure_ , but Ja’far is wriggling down like it does, and that’s all the incentive Sinbad needs.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs, no matter how his own breath hitches, his own hands want to tremble, but Ja’far needs him to be in control. Ja’far is actually _letting_ him, and that goes to his cock just as much as the sweet, tight heat of his ass does. “I’ve got you, I won’t give you more than you can take.”

 

"I…"

 

His toes curl, every muscle in his body feeling as if it is drawn as tightly as a bowstring, and ah, god, that's as nice as it is exhausting. A soft, broken moan escapes his lips, and Ja'far huffs out a hot, desperate breath. "Want all of it, though." Even the _thought_ of it makes his cock twitch, makes indescribable heat pool in his belly, even though it's too tense, too much for him to take comfortably. "Please," he rasps, his head turning to the side to bury into Sinbad's neck, another shudder his surrender as he sinks into Sinbad's grasp.

 

Dimly, Sinbad has to admit that his determination to be gentle was about as likely to succeed as his determination to be good when Ja’far was wriggling on his lap. He wraps an arm around Ja’far’s waist, lowering him with a grunt of effort--effort, not to just _slam_ him down--and his eyes flutter shut as he pants, fully-seated. “Know you can take it,” he mutters, and he rocks up, pulling Ja’far down at the same time as he moves, turning his head to catch the younger man’s lips in a swift kiss.

 

The half-gasp, half-squeak that leaves his throat is lost against Sinbad's mouth, the kiss too sloppy as he pants openly, lost _, relieved_ when he's pulled down, unable to do anything but writhe when Sinbad's cock sinks so deeply inside of him. Ja'far swears he can nearly taste him, and for all he chokes down air, it's not enough, leaving his chest to heave and his thighs to tremble, back arching with each upward thrust into his body, with his hands splaying over Sinbad's, gripping tightly in encouragement far more than any plea for restraint. 

 

He feels like the basest of whores, _liking it_ when it's too much. His breath hiccups on a little, sobbing moan, his legs splaying further over Sinbad's lap even though that doesn't help at all--it isn't as if he could close his legs if he _tried_ , not with how spread open he is. One hand fumbles, grasping at Sinbad's knee for leverage to push _back_ , his mouth falling open as Sin's cock slides that much deeper, and Ja'far shivers hard, unable to do anything but press back at that same angle for a moment, just enough pleasure twitching up his spine to take off that tense, hot ache of pain.

 

One of these days, lost at the feeling of being properly, achingly _stuffed full_ , Ja’far is really going to hurt himself. He’s a _tiny_ thing, as small as (smaller than) any of the girls Sinbad likes to set on his knee, with delicate bones and a slender frame and narrow shoulders and god, he’s _tight_. “Easy,” Sinbad murmurs, breath hitching as he has to thrust up, has to take what he needs just a bit. “Easy, it’s not going anywhere, you can have as much as you want.”

 

With anyone else, he’d be tempted to grin, to show them exactly how hard he could fuck them, to slap that pale curved ass and let affectionate, insulting compliments fall from his lips. With Ja’far, he just rocks, one hand holding his hip steady, the other, sliding around and _up_ to toy with that same nipple, knowing that for all his protestations, Ja’far likes it when it hurts.

 

God, that feels good.

 

Ja'far huffs quietly, his eyes fluttering shut as he squirms, taking Sinbad's advice to go _easy_. As if any of this is easy--but he likes it that way, especially when Sinbad fills him so perfectly and so _completely_ , and it's all he can do to arch back into the rocking of Sinbad's hips, to wriggle forward against the fingers plucking at his nipple, and it's the _memory_ of that piercing there, more than anything, that makes his cock that much harder. Too easy to imagine Sinbad's finger hooking into it, tugging, pulling as he fucks him--

 

He's glad, really, that Sinbad can't see his face very well, especially not when he tips his head forward and his skin flushes so damnably hot. For all he wriggles and squirms down onto Sin's cock, it's still not quite enough. "Ahh… just… just a little bit harder…" _Or bite me, or pull my hair, or--_ anything, really, because whatever Sinbad does always seems to be _good_.

 

Sinbad buries his face in Ja’far’s shoulder, groaning as his hips snap up. _I know what you need_ , he thinks, cock aching, throbbing at the thought. _You need me to lose control and fuck you like a beast._

 

Ja’far is so complicated sometimes that Sinbad always seems to _forget_ the rules--slow to start, and that had been so hard to learn that he’d always, always tended to go too slow later, forgetting the way Ja’far clawed and sighed and begged, and just the memory of that, much less the knowledge that _right now_ Ja’far is squirming and needing around his cock, is enough to make Sinbad forget he’d ever wanted to be gentle.

 

“Hope this is what you want,” he mutters, and lunges forward, pressing Ja’far over the side of the tub, hips snapping forward to bury himself deeply, groaning at the _squeeze_ of it. The younger man is trembling, tight and breathily squeaking around him, and Sinbad fists a hand in his hair, yanking him back hard and fast. _Hope it is, because I can’t stop._

 

Ja'far _wants_ to scream--wants to shriek and sob and beg for more, even if it's already as much as he can stand, but the sounds catch in his throat, strangled into little squeaks and whines. His hands fist over the side of the tub, his face buried into his own arm until his hair is yanked on, and _god_ , that's good too, leaving his neck painfully arched as he gulps and gasps for air. 

 

He's probably little better than the basest of whores, when it comes down to it, considering how _fast_ he comes when he's used like this. Sinbad's cock inside of him is a tight, agonizingly good ache, too thick and too hard and even still, he squirms back onto it, stretched onto tiptoe until his feet and legs cramp, and he knows he's breathlessly sobbing as he spills without even a touch to his own cock. Even then he wriggles back, panting so fast he swears he'll die, everything so hot and dizzying that pain is secondary, far, far down the list when he's so overwhelmed.

 

Seeing Ja’far like this-- _feeling_ him like this, squirming and writhing and impaled on his cock--is far, far too much for Sinbad’s self-control.

 

He lunges forward, biting harder than he means to into Ja’far’s shoulder, hands bruising everywhere they touch Ja’far’s pale, pale skin, wrenching his thighs apart for a last frenzied chorus of thrusts. There’s nothing he craves more than being _inside_ that tightness, the searing heat of it too much even if he couldn’t feel the squeeze of soft skin under his hands, hear strangled cries coming from Ja’far’s mouth, see that usually-straight spine curved in an arch of ecstasy. 

 

With a wordless groan, Sinbad buries himself, too hard, too deep, knowing it’s hurting Ja’far and with no words to apologize, shuddering gasps wracking his body as he thrusts, spilling himself slick and hot and probably too much as he finally stills.

 

Finally, gratefully, Ja'far slumps forward with a groan, burying his face into his arms as he comes down from his high, twitching and shivering at how it feels when Sinbad comes inside of him, everything suddenly so hot and _slick_ that it tempts him to push back, just to feel that slippery little slide. It makes him tremble--everything is too sore, too achingly _used_ \--and he flops against the side of the tub, boneless and thoroughly spent. 

 

"Keep being such a good king," he breathes, voice muffled from where his face is buried, "and perhaps this can be your reward more often."

 

Sinbad sighs out a breath, pressing a last kiss to Ja’far’s shoulder before sinking back into the water, no matter the temptation to just lay on top of his advisor’s back. That’s the problem with bedding someone so small, after all; a careless roll in his sleep could half-suffocate Ja’far. “If that’s the sort of thing you’re giving out for prizes,” he manages, dipping his hair back to let the sweat rinse away, “you’d better be prepared for me to accomplish a lot of goals very quickly.”

 

"I'll believe it when I see it," Ja'far half-laughs, sliding slowly down into the water with a sated sigh. He lists to the side a bit, not quite wanting to _sit_ , but liking the way the water washes away sweat and weariness all the same. "Though you have been very motivated lately, thankfully."

 

“Ah, well. Nearly losing my country because I made stupid decisions has a way of motivating me.” Sinbad pushes the wet hair back from his forehead, relaxing back against the side of the tub, stretching out his legs. “Have they caught him yet, by the way? You’d know before I would.”

 

Ja'far takes a moment to dunk his own hair, coming up a second later with it dripping into his eyes. "Last I have heard, we know of his whereabouts and are ready to capture him. It's only a matter of time--I'm assuming you want him alive?" 

 

About to answer, Sinbad hesitates. Certainly _he_ wants to see the man punished, and doubtless a good chunk of the people (especially those in the surrounding states that had fallen victim to his cowardice) will as well. But…

 

“Yes,” he answers slowly, frowning in thought. “I’m not sure...I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before.”

 

Ja'far's expression twists wry. "Many kings would torture him before killing him publicly. I'm assuming that isn't what you'd like to do upon bringing him back here."

 

“You assume quite a lot when I don’t know my own mind yet,” Sinbad murmurs, not quite a rebuke. He sighs, leaning his head back. “The problem is, I wanted a country because I wanted to be better than all the awful kings, but...they’re the only ones I’ve ever seen. What would a _good_ king do?”

 

A little, thoughtful hum follows as Ja'far gingerly stretches out a leg, propping his foot upon one of Sinbad's thighs. "Imprison him. Sentence him to death. Perhaps put him to the labor lines, rebuilding the city that he destroyed. But they certainly would not _torture_ him to death… or be unnecessarily cruel about it, if death is what you decide. Though, you shouldn't let me too close to him. I personally want to carve Sindria's crest into his chest."

 

Sinbad snorts, but it warms him nonetheless. To know that someone as discerning, as judgmental and shrewd as Ja’far feels so much loyalty to the thing he’d built...well, that’s enough right there. “How do you know?” he asks, resting a hand on Ja’far’s foot, thumb stroking across the arch of it just hard enough that it won’t tickle. “Have you ever seen a good king?”

 

The instinct to jerk is still there, expecting it to tickle, though Ja'far doesn't pull his foot away. His gaze lids, a slow whoosh of breath leaving his lungs. "Mmn. I've seen _you_." His head tilts. "Otherwise, I've heard of them, read about them, and how their subjects praised their fair, but still stern rule."

 

“I want them to love me.” It’s not much of a confession, not when Ja’far knows him so well. “I know it’s selfish, but it’s what I want. I want every single person in Sindria to be fed and clothed and happy, and I want them to love me, or what’s the point?”

 

"Then sentence him to death," Ja'far simply replies, idly wriggling his toes. "It's as firm as a response as you can have to something like this. Torture will bring your people momentary satisfaction, but it will also only bring about fear. A swift death is far more of a statement, and not nearly as cruel, merely an adequate punishment for all that he took from this country. It will let your people know that being a traitor is unforgivable, and send a similar message to your enemies, besides." 

 

Sinbad brings his other hand up, slowly working his fingers in a massage. “I don’t feel that he’s wronged me personally, so much as he has the people. And his death won’t bring back the ones lost in the border conflicts, or the riots. He’s not my enemy the way Al-Sarmen is. Is it still right for me to kill someone like that?”

 

"It will make anyone think twice about doing such a thing to Sindria again," Ja'far points out around a hissing sigh, his eyes lidding as he sinks back, his foot arching within Sinbad's grasp. "Alternatively… there is some satisfaction in making him work as a laborer to rebuild the city. But what to do with him after that is the real question…" 

 

“But no one will ever be able to do such a thing to Sindria again, because I’ll never leave anyone else on the throne in my absence but you,” Sinbad counters, working his thumbs down the sensitive arch of Ja’far’s foot. “And as fitting as it would be to make him a laborer, if we let the people know, they’d mob him in revenge. And if we didn’t, they’d wonder what we did with him.”

 

Ja'far twitches and squirms, his toes curling in reflexive protest. "What would you rather do, then?" he finally manages, flopping his head back over the side of the tub as he surrenders. "Kill him, imprison him, force him into labor. Those are your basic options."

 

Sinbad works his thumbs down to the heel, and the backside of it, rubbing the tendon. “There should be a better way. It was my own poor decisions that led here, not just his cowardice.”

 

Ja'far barely bites back a groan. "Ahh… nnn, let me… sleep on it, then. Though I patently disagree that your 'poor decisions' had such influence upon his own stupidity and disgusting behavior. An honorable man would not use your prolonged absence like he did."

 

“I’m not defending him,” Sinbad mutters. “And if it were just me he’d wronged, I’d like nothing more than to take his head off and turn it upside down for a candy bowl. But...how do you punish someone who’s wronged thousands? Do you let them each have a piece? Do you…” He sighs, stroking a thumb along the side of the foot, then tugging a toe. “I’m sorry, I’ll let you sleep on it. Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”

 

"Sin." Ja'far pushes himself up and reaches forward, gently grabbing hold of a strand of Sinbad's hair and tugging. "Do recall, for once, that you are a king. You represent those thousands of people. Even if he had just wronged you, those thousands of people would want to see justice _for you_. Whatever you see fit is what _they_ will see fit, one way or another. Kill him, torture him, imprison him, sell him--whatever you do, it is _still_ justice for them. You can't do very wrong in this case." 

 

Sinbad blinks, catching Ja’far’s eyes. There’s faith there, faith in _him_ , and if there’s anything in the world more humbling, he doesn’t know about it. He nods, but the thought still niggles at him, less because he doesn’t know what to do, and more because he doesn’t like that he doesn’t know what to do. “You’d respect my decision, wouldn’t you? As a resident of Sindria?”

 

"Whatever it is, I would stand behind it without hesitation." Ja'far sinks back, releasing Sinbad's hair with a last little tug. "You don't have to ask. You should know that by now."

 

_Even after I let you down, let all of them down, they believe in me_. It almost beggars belief. But then again, why shouldn’t they? 

 

Sinbad grins, standing, stretching, and extending a hand to Ja’far. “I have more work to do tonight. You can rest if you want, but I’d like to share the midnight oil with you.”

 

Ja'far's brows arch high, and he can't help but wonder if this is his own incentive at work, or honest motivation as a king. Ah, well, he'll take it either way. He stretches up, taking Sinbad's hand and using it to pull himself to his feet, albeit in a slightly wobbly fashion. "By all means, my king. I am always at your service."

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Ahhh, Sindria is _warm._

 

It's a breezy, balmy sort of warm, not the gross, dripping humidity surrounding the Kou Empire's main palace. The placement of the palace in Sindria is especially nice, welcoming the ocean breeze and through Sinbad's window, Judal can really feel it, particularly when he collapses onto the man's bed to wait for his return.

 

He _felt_ Sinbad conquer that seventh dungeon already. He should be back at any time.

 

'Any time' turns to an hour, and Judal starts getting not only bored, but sleepy. Sinbad's bed is _comfortable_ , and smells like him, besides, and that's enough to slowly put him to sleep in and of itself. A _little_ nap won't hurt, Judal supposes, even if he knows wriggling down into the sheets will end up wrinkling his clothes--ah, to hell with it. He'll be presentable enough, and the ocean breeze is almost chilly now, so under the blanket is a better choice, with his face buried down into a pillow.

 

Sinbad drops his things in a trail, starting at the Palace’s outer door and proceeding up to his room, like breadcrumbs of things he’s too weary to carry any more. The whole way back, he’s heard nothing but that voice echoing in his head, telling him there are _no more dungeons_ , that he’d bled and fought and worked for so much so fast only to find that he hadn’t really needed to. He could have taken his time, prepared for years, because then at least he’d have had something to look forward to. Now he might as well cut off his own legs, and his arms as well, just be a head fit to do nothing but give orders and sit on a throne.

 

The dark thoughts swirl in his mind as he finally reaches his own bedroom, dropping the last of his clothes to the ground before he hits the bed. A second’s pause, and his frown turns into a weary smile as he curls his body around the warm lump. At least he still has Ja’far. “You waited for me,” he murmurs, eyes closing in bliss. "Gave me something nice to come home to."

 

A little shift, and the lump stirs, cracking open red eyes into the now rather dimly lit room. Ahh, he'd really overslept, hadn't he? But with good results, by the sound of it. Judal squirms, rolling over underneath the sheets, and promptly butts his head into Sinbad's chest, burying himself close and breathing in the scent of him. It's much better, like this. The real thing is always better than just a pillow.

 

It feels obscenely good, relaxing and comforting and _stable_ , to have Ja’far in his arms. The warmth of him, the weight of him, the smell of him, all combining to soothe Sinbad to--

 

Wait.

 

The thing about Ja’far, the really _odd_ thing, is that even when he’s been running all day, when he hasn’t bathed for a week because they were in the desert, or ten minutes after trying on a perfume, he has no smell. Sometimes one will cling to him for a few minutes, but it’s an odd natural quirk, and something that Sinbad finds somewhere between annoying and endearing. 

 

The person butting against his chest has a smell, and it’s familiar, too. 

 

Ah, damn, he’d so enjoyed the thought of going to sleep with someone he _liked_. “Judal,” he says quietly, keeping his voice calm--hell maybe he’ll be able to get out of this alive, and he’s _far_ too tired to fight-- “what are you doing here?”

 

That's not quite the greeting he wanted. Judal grumbles, and his hands reach out, grabbing for Sinbad's arm, wrapping around it tightly as he sleepily peers upward through his lashes. "I was waiting for you. You conquered that dungeon, right? I raised it for you, it was a present." 

 

Sinbad sort of wants to quit. He’s _tired_ , his heart hurts, he’s been walking for ages and damn it, he knows full well how mercurial Judal can be, and right now he looks like there’s nothing he wants more than to be petted and coddled and…

 

_Fine. If he kills me later, at least I’ll sleep first._

 

Sinbad squeezes, pulling Judal tightly against him. _And it’ll be a comfortable sleep._ “Very powerful,” he agrees, yawning, then nudging his nose against the top of Judal’s head. “Just for me?”

 

Judal _purrs_ , a low, rumbling thing as he buries his face back into Sinbad's chest, sighing long and slow as he's pulled close. "Mmhm. Just for you. The Kou Empire doesn't know, you shouldn't tell them," he murmurs, and a leg promptly flops its way over Sinbad's hip to insure that they stay as close as humanly possible. "Wanted to see if you could do it first."

 

Like this, clingy and affectionate and not...stabby, Judal reminds Sinbad of how he was on their first meeting, and he can’t help but wonder if Al-Sarmen had tinkered with him to make him more like that again. Ah, gods, he’s too _tired_ to deal with that now, too tired to deal with anything but snuggling against the warm body in his arms, working his fingers into thick hair to gently scratch. “I could tell it was yours. All of yours feel the same. They like to...play.”

 

"More fun that way," Judal sighs out, rubbing his cheek against Sinbad's chest as his eyes flutter shut. "Wanted to kinda make up for being a jerk the last few times," he tiredly mumbles, voice muffled as he shoves his face more firmly into Sinbad's chest. "But you don't seem that happy. Guess it wasn't good--sorry."

 

“Mmm, no, it was good.” God, it _had_ been good, hadn’t it? He’d thought it would get the better of him a dozen times, and there was the fierce pride in knowing that it _didn’t_ , that it _hadn’t_ , that he’d bested it not by trickery and deceit but by his own strength and cunning. “Probably the best I’ve ever gone through.” He brushes a kiss against the top of Judal’s head, inhaling that exotic spice as he tightens his arm. “Thank you.”

 

That's definitely pride that makes him shiver, and maybe a little bit of relief, too. "Good. Then I can stay?" _Your bed is comfortable, don't make me leave._

 

Sinbad huffs out a breath, tugging the big blanket over both of them. “You’re warm and you smell good and I like the way you feel in my arms. Don’t go.” _I’d keep you forever if you were always like this._

 

Good. Really good, much better than being kicked out the window that he came through and sent home after being scolded like a child. Kouen's bed is nothing like this, and Kouen doesn't hold him like this, doesn't even really want to touch him at all, not like Sinbad, at least. Sinbad seems to _like_ holding him and kissing him and everything else, not like Kouen who only cracks a smile if he starts chattering about magic or battle… 

 

Judal sort of wants to tell Sinbad that he _had_ dressed up for him, smelled extra good on purpose, even, but he's too sleepy, and Sinbad's too warm, and probably too tired as well, by the way he acts. _In the morning_ , he dimly tells himself, and thus settles down with a pleased little sigh.

 

Sinbad sleeps in much later than Kouen does, too. 

 

Maybe it's the whole just-conquered-a-dungeon thing, but Judal doubts it. They're a tangled mess when he wakes to the morning sun pouring over them, and it's with a grumble that he rolls atop Sinbad completely, trying to tug his braid free from where the man half flops over it, to no avail. "Stupid king," he mumbles, and he collapses down as if he's boneless, pouting as he sets his chin atop Sinbad's chest to stare at him while he still sleeps. Ah, he's stupidly, annoyingly handsome. Not so much unlike Kouen, but it's still different--not anywhere near as cold and the lines are still softer, besides… 

 

Something is _on_ him.

 

Sinbad can sleep through quite a lot--noise, light, heat, cold, none of those bother his slumber in the slightest. But when someone flops down on his chest, resting a pointed chin there and kicking his legs back and forth, it doesn’t take him long to crack his eyes, no matter how his body aches.

 

Ah. Right. He’d gone to bed with his arms around Judal.

 

Well, in for a draught, in for a queen, and Sinbad smiles, reaching up to tug gently on a loose lock of hair dangling around the magi’s face. “You look pretty in the sunlight. Good morning.”

 

"You're lying on my hair," Judal petulantly points out, even as his head tips forward, nudging into Sinbad's hand in a clearly attention-seeking gesture. "Mm, but your bed is really comfortable to sleep in, so I'll forgive you this time." 

 

Being around Judal makes him _stupid_. It has to, because he _knows_ that the last time he took Judal to bed he wound up with stab wounds soon after, and yet his hand still curls into that soft dark hair as he shifts, being careful not to yank too hard as he frees the long braid. “My apologies. I’ll brush it for you to make it up to you, if you want.”

 

The idea is a nice one, for sure. Sinbad is _always_ good with his hair--none of the Kou brothers are at all, and the princesses just as useless. "Later," he agrees as he wriggles down, letting his already sleep-wrinkled and tousled robes slink further down his shoulders. "It'll just get messed up again at this rate, though." Judal pauses, and spares a frown over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "Freckles isn't gonna come in anytime soon, is he?" 

 

Now _that_ is an idea that chills Sinbad instantly. He never prefers it when Ja’far comes in while he’s bedding someone, but something tells him this would be far, far, _far_ worse than if Judal were just some random girl he’d picked up at a festival. It twists in his chest to make him think he’s being so dishonest ( _and when did I start lying to Ja’far anyway?_ ), but a flare of magic turns the lock with an audible click. “Just you and me,” he murmurs, and in order to distract himself from the betrayal, he buries his face in Judal’s neck, sliding an arm down to sling around his waist.

 

Judal grins, slinking down to nuzzle into Sinbad's neck in turn, his lips parting to lightly nip before his head tips to catch one golden hoop of an earring. "Good," he sighs out with a light tug. "Mmn--after I came all this way, I'd expect your undivided attention." A squirm, and Judal settles his knees neatly to either side of Sinbad's hips, his fingertips tracing the line of his collarbone. "My dungeon didn't hurt you too badly, did it?"

 

It’s far easier than it should be to let go of the guilt. Oh, well. He can always feel guilty tomorrow, he supposes. Yeah, that sounds like it’s for the best. “Not too badly,” he agrees, smiling at the affectionate little touches, hands wandering up and down Judal’s back, slowly stroking over the soft skin. “You put it damned far away, though. Took me forever to get there. Not all of us can fly.”

 

"Soooorry," Judal huffs, his nails flexing in for a slow, pleased _knead_ at the slide of Sinbad's fingers down his spine. "I didn't want the Kou Empire to snatch it up, so it had to be a good ways away. Aren't you glad you didn't have competition?"

 

“I had some competition,” Sinbad protests. “Lots of local boys. They didn’t make it out, obviously.” Most men who go into a dungeon don’t. He leans up, placing a soft, sweet kiss on Judal’s lips. “No princes, though. Thank you for that.”

 

"That's not competition for you, though." Judal's teeth gently scrape over Sinbad's lower lip, his eyes lidding as he exhales a breath that's far more a purr than anything. "No one is now, when you have _seven_ dungeons conquered."

 

_Seven_. The number sounds so final. Sinbad has to wonder if Judal knows, knows about the djinn’s words and how much they ache inside him even now, has to wonder if that’s why he’s here. It’s the very limit of his magoi, something he can’t train or work at or cajole, something that’s simply over, and a little bit of the helplessness and rage he’d felt yesterday comes back, no matter how he tries to push it away. “Do you think a man of seven dungeons very powerful?”

 

"There's no one else in the world like you," Judal readily tells him, and he nuzzles his face into the crook of Sinbad's shoulder, unable to stop from biting, just a little, at bared skin. "The only other person to conquer multiple dungeons is Kouen… but, ah, he only has three, so it's not the same…"

 

Sinbad hisses a little, a spark of heat flashing through him at the scrape of Judal’s teeth, pooling low in his abdomen as his arms tighten around Judal, dragging him closer. _So, Kouen’s conquered another dungeon, hmm?_ That doesn’t worry him much. Even on the slight chance that the mysterious Kouen’s magoi is greater than his own, the man’s only a year younger, and hasn’t half as many djinn. “Nearly as rare as a Magi,” Sinbad murmurs. “Both of us are scarce.”

 

A quiet, but no less eager sound rumbles from Judal's throat, and he nips again, biting harder this time and sucking as his eyes flutter with the arch of his back and the downward wriggle of his hips. "Mmhm… which is why we should stick together," he breathes upon releasing Sinbad's skin, and it's hard, really hard not to let his next words turn into a whine. "Let me choose you." 

 

A spark of something dark flares in Sinbad’s chest. He could do _so much_ with Judal at his side. It wouldn’t matter how many dungeons he could conquer, he’d have a Magi as a resource, and only two others in the world could say that, and possibly not even two. 

 

But…

 

But there’s still that mad gleam in Judal’s eyes, no matter how he wriggles like a kitten, and Sinbad would bet gold to garbage that he’s no more willing to give up Al-Sarmen than before. 

 

So instead of breathing, “Of course,” Sinbad murmurs, “Pleasure before business,” and rolls them over, kissing Judal deeply before he has a chance to protest.

 

He _wants_ to whine, to kick and protest and tell Sinbad to _decide_ already, because he wants it so badly that it hurts. Sinbad is a dozen times better than Kouen, both to be around and in _strength_ , but he won't say a simple _yes_ when Kouen pesters him at Al-Sarmen's cue to _choose him already_. 

 

Judal doesn't want to.

 

He doesn't mention that Al-Sarmen is impatient, annoyed with him for even trying to lure Sindria's king, no matter how powerful. They know, of course, if he chooses Kouen, that it doesn't _matter_ how powerful Sinbad is--Kouen _will_ be stronger, and that's the end of it. It makes them angry that Judal doesn't want that, especially not as much as he wants Sinbad's mouth kissing him like this, or the weight and heat of his body pressing him down into his soft, soft bed, and ah, god, that's _nice_ , to be able to spread his legs and wrap his thighs around Sinbad's hips, rather than having his face shoved down like he's not even something that need be seen to be fucked… 

 

" _Please_ ," he begs, and he's certain it's less about sex, no matter how breathless he is, than it is about Sinbad saying _yes, I'll be your king, you can be my magi._ It twists in his chest, makes him claw at Sinbad's back and drag him down to _keep_ him close. 

 

How perfect would it be if Judal could be _his_ , his alone? 

 

Just one thing flares in his mind as he kisses, hands wandering down to caress the soft flesh at Judal’s thighs, to hike his ass up, squeezing and kneading at smooth, perfect flesh.

 

_I have to make him love me more than he fears them._

 

For all of Judal’s protestations about wanting the best teachers, he _is_ capricious, mercurial, and he surely wouldn’t mind leaving his teachers behind for his _king_ , would he? Not unless he fears them, and Sinbad knows enough about Al-Sarmen to think that perhaps Judal isn’t as stupid as Ja’far wants to think.

 

Mind-games in bed. Gods, is that what he’s come to?

 

Sinbad’s arms curl around Judal, hefting him up into his lap like something precious, kissing him like he’s something Sinbad needs. I’ll make it happen. _Whatever it takes, I’ll replace them in his heart, and he’ll be mine._

 

Judal’s eyes are beautiful, for all their madness. _Please be mine._

 

Judal knows he's over-eager as he lurches up, wriggling his way into Sinbad's lap with breathy sighs and soft, panting moans, his arms draped around his shoulders, fingers lacing through his hair. He can't _help it_ , though--not when it feels so good, not when Sinbad is so warm and _wants him_ , and that's the biggest relief he's felt in what feels like ages, especially when the last time they were together, he'd lost his temper and thought for sure he'd ruined all of this. 

 

He was wrong. _Thankfully_ , he was wrong.

 

He's the one fumbling at his own clothes, uncaring if it makes him look like a harlot for all his desire to be undressed _faster_ , and he's glad at his choice of dress this time, because robes are easier to just open and leave partially hanging, an aesthetic that he knows even _Kouen_ likes. _You probably do, too. I hope you do. You're touching me like you do, I think?_ Judal huffs, his face burying its way into Sinbad's neck as he hesitantly reaches one hand back, pawing at the tie at the end of his braid, and shaking it out shortly after that, the mass of it tumbling loose. _This, though--this is just for you._

 

There’s a plan.

 

Sinbad tries to remember that there’s a _plan_.

 

It’s ridiculous, impossible, because Judal is warm and wriggling and happy on top of him, and that eager little smile, those pawing hands, the way he bares so much skin because he needs so badly--

 

Sinbad is sure there had been a plan.

 

Whatever it was, he finds himself kissing trails down Judal’s throat, biting and nipping and making bruises, claiming hard. He hopes the plan had something to do with getting his hands on every part of Judal he can reach, grabbing it closer and kissing it, urging him to wrap those long, teasing legs around his hips. “Want you,” he mutters against Judal’s neck, trailing into a growl. “Want you so bad, need to be inside you.”

 

That makes him shudder, makes his pulse jump and quicken faster than _anything_ , and Judal whines, _mewls_ as he arches his back and squirms, his head thrown back with a breathless groan as he twists his hips and pulls at Sinbad's hair. " _Fuck me_." He sounds pitiful, probably, whining like he is, his breath so fast that he has to close his eyes and swallow hard to try and calm himself down. "Please, p-please--" _I_ missed _you._

 

There’s something brutally honest about Judal. Maybe it’s the stark, incapable honesty of an ignorant child, as Ja’far seems to think. Sinbad doesn’t know, right now doesn’t _care_ , only cares that the hungry, aching _need_ in the boy’s face is for _him_. “Shh,” he murmurs, drawn inescapably, helplessly forward. He kisses the boy’s face, kisses his neck, and a hungry growl wells in his throat as he eases Judal’s legs as far apart as they’ll go, rubbing the slick head of his cock against that pretty little hole. Judal is no wilting maiden, he’s a creature of need and desire, and Sinbad is only as gentle as the fire in his chest allows, thrusting up _hard_ , biting down and groaning as he does.

 

Judal _sobs_ , voice breaking to shriek, too, he thinks, though it's ragged and breathless at best, his hands clawing at Sinbad's back and his body twisting, thighs clamping tight about the man's waist as he hiccups and moans. It _hurts_ \--tense, tight, not slick enough at all and it just makes him tremble all the more, to know Sinbad wants him so badly he couldn't even wait. He can take it, though; he tells himself that, at any rate, no matter the hot, thick stretch of Sinbad's cock that makes his eyes flutter and cross when he pushes down, drawing another broken keen from his throat as he mindlessly writhes. 

 

God, it's _good_ , though.

 

No one fucks him like this. No one grabs him and hauls him down and shoves him and pins him to the bed and kisses and bites him and _marks him_ like they want everyone to know where he's been like this. Judal blinks hard, and his vision smears with tears as he pants hard, arching his back to better shove himself down, no matter how he bites his lip and his legs shake so hard that they just fall open again, helpless and begging. 

 

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Sinbad blames his exhaustion, his raw _need_ for the boy for forgetting, hurried as he was, and he lurches forward, lowering Judal onto his back as he pulls out, just for long enough to slick his cock with aloe. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait, you’re--”

 

Judal is _perfect_ around him as he slides back in, slick and tight and hot and _perfect_. Sinbad plants his knees on the bed, pressing a hard sucking kiss to the boy’s neck as he moves, groaning at the _squeeze_ of it. “Perfect,” he pants, finishing a half-forgotten sentence.

 

"It's--" _Fine, better than fine, really, really good,_ Judal wants to tell him, though his voice breaks again and he's sure he's sobbing all over again, though he can't quite hear it over the pounding of his own pulse. If it was good before, no matter that aching, agonizing burn, this is a dozen times better, hot and slick and enough to make him whimper with each deep slide. His fingers curl, splaying over Sinbad's shoulders, and his mouth falls open with the next, deep press of Sinbad's hips. "Ah--hah, there, _please_ \--" There's still that tense little edge to everything, but god help him if he doesn't love how _far_ Sinbad can go inside of him--enough that Judal is sure he can't breathe sometimes, enough that his eyes just roll back and all he can do is rock his hips down, wanting more.

 

Sinbad can hardly _breathe_. 

 

There’s nothing that feels as good as being buried in Judal, nothing that makes his heart pound like this, as Sinbad wraps his arms around the boy, pulling him as close as two people can possibly get. It’s easier, from this angle, to lean back just a bit, to nip at a collarbone and dig his hands in right as he thrusts _just_ so, and what he doesn’t know about fucking men he makes up for by watching Judal’s exquisite, expressive face. No matter how he tries to be gentle it won’t be enough, so he doesn’t try very hard.

 

“Show me,” he breathes, tugging on an earlobe with his teeth, sliding in hard and fast and _hungry_. “Show me that face, when I’ve got you…”

 

Judal hiccups, whines, _boneless_ when Sinbad slides in so perfectly. He doesn't quite hear Sinbad, but he knows his face twists in something like ecstasy, his cock so hard that the slightest drag of Sinbad's hands over his hips, the touch of his teeth and wash of his breath, are all enough to make it throb that much more.

 

It _hurts_ because it's so good. He sobs as he comes, chest heaving and eyes glazed, his brow knitted from the tension that suddenly makes him squeeze and tremble even more, and god, that just makes him come _harder_ , spilling slick and messy between them as he writhes his way down onto Sinbad's cock, clinging to his shoulders and shivering, quivering with every little slide of heat that keeps slithering up his spine. 

 

Usually, this is the part Sinbad likes the most. 

 

When he’s served his bedmate well, when someone’s clenching and breathless on his cock and then goes boneless and grateful and clinging to him, and he can take what he wants--that’s the best part, usually.

 

With Judal, who has the _time_?

 

It’s too much, too intense with the squeeze of it, the clench and spasm of tight muscles as the boy squirms on him, panting and whining and god, there’s nothing Sinbad can do but lose himself bare seconds later, burying his cry into Judal’s shoulder as he spills, flooding the boy wet and hot and _full_. He pants out his breaths, sweat-slick and trembling against Judal as he slumps over with slow, satisfied relief.

 

God, that's nice, too.

 

Nice, and really obscene, if he thinks about it, to know he's so _full_ , and that if Sinbad pulled his cock out right then, he'd be dripping and making even more of a mess than he already has. The thought makes Judal shudder, his arms splaying over Sinbad's back as he drags him down, liking the weight of him against him, no matter how sticky and sweaty they both are. "Really, really missed you," he mumbles, nudging at Sinbad's shoulder with his nose. It's easier to say it, when he's achingly sated. 

 

“Mm. Missed you too. Missed _this_ ,” Sinbad adds, and even if he’s sated beyond the point of rolling over, he brings his hands up, threading gently through that thick mass of soft darkness splayed across his pillows. His body aches, but he ignores it. If he can ignore it to fight, he can ignore it when he’s on top of someone gorgeous.

 

Judal sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he simply flops his head back into Sinbad's hands. "'s been too long," he grumbles, letting his hands flop down, too, because it's too much effort even to hold onto Sinbad's back at this rate. "Your rukh's even weirder now…"

 

Sinbad blinks. Scheherezade had made some comment about the state of his rukh too, months earlier, though he hadn’t paid it much attention at the time with everything else he’d been working on. He combs slowly through Judal’s hair, frowning in thought. “What’s weird about it? Did it forget to shave or something?”

 

An amused snort follows. "No, it's just… hmm." Judal lazily tilts his head to the side, rubbing against one of Sinbad's hands. "There was just a little bit of black before… like one wiggling around in a big sea of white. But now, maybe like… a third of it is like that. I wonder if it's because you're around me, that it's that much clearer now."

 

More black in his sea of white? That doesn’t sound particularly encouraging, but given what he knows about Judal’s rukh, what he’s seen of it, an adverse reaction wouldn’t be terribly welcomed. “Maybe I’m just drawn to you. Maybe I always would be.”

 

"So be my king." Judal stares up at him unwaveringly. "Even if your rukh turned completely black like mine, I'd still want you." 

 

_I wouldn’t want me._ Sinbad avoids that steady gaze, so wanting, so oddly trusting. “You know it isn’t you I have a problem with. It’s your….friends. But I’d rather not fight today if we don’t have to.” God, he’s tired.

 

Judal's lips immediately twist into a pout. "They don't want me to pick you, either. They think you're too hard to control. They think you're the reason I've…" _Been avoiding the Kou Empire, leaving whenever I can, avoiding their summons, not listening to their plans._

 

Sinbad nudges his nose against Judal’s shoulder, then presses a firm kiss to it. “My advisors don’t think I should keep seeing you, either. You’ve stabbed some of my friends, I’ve stabbed some of yours, but that doesn’t mean we can’t lock the doors for a while, hmm?” _Just don’t go. I’m not ready to lose you again, not yet._

 

"… Sounds like one of those books you write. Even in the Kou Empire, everyone talks about them," Judal mutters, and he sighs, flopping a hand over the back of Sinbad's head. "If you ever write one starring us, I wanna read it." 

 

Sinbad grins, scratching gently behind Judal’s ears. It’s like bedding a big cat--a _really_ big cat, the kind that could turn and snap his neck at any moment, and all the more beautiful for it. “That’s quite an idea. You probably won’t have seven horns and breathe fire like Ja’far, though.” Hell, maybe he’ll make Judal into a girl in the books. That would sell, forbidden romance always does.

 

"I better not. I'm way prettier than he is, anyway." That shouldn't feel so _good_ , but god, it does, and Judal just sags into the bed, lips parting with a shaky exhale. "I don't want him in it at all, if you write it."

 

“I’ll write him out of those scenes,” Sinbad promises. A fire-breathing horned demon really has no place in a boudoir novel. At least, not the ones he writes. “Maybe you can be a seductive dark-eyed dancer.”

 

"You've never even seen me dance," Judal points out with a sigh. "Doesn't seem very accurate."

 

That’s fair enough, even if Sinbad frowns. He’s never seen Ja’far breathe fire either, never been in the same room with half of the things he’s written about. That’s just good _storytelling_. “Goatherd?” he suggests, remembering what he’d suspected the night of their first encounter. Or, maybe, “Concubine?”

 

Judal nearly wriggles free to kick him at 'goatherd' before he wavers, just a little. "… Mmnn, that's not bad. I'd be your concubine, if you wanted me to be." 

 

It’s almost certainly bad, how Sinbad gets a slow heat in his chest at the thought. “Maybe I’ll make you another man’s concubine, and I’m the brigand who stole you away in the night,” he muses, burying his face in Judal’s hair, pressing little kisses to his hairline.

 

"Yeah," Judal sighs, flopping back with a luxurious stretch. "Really good. I'd let you steal me, too. Oh, make sure you keep my hair really long, I'll get mad otherwise. I've never cut it, you know."

 

"Never ever?” Sinbad grins, combing his hands through, careful not to snag anything. “I can believe that. Maybe I’ll tell everyone you’re a bit older too, so they don’t think I’m a lecher.”

 

Judal snorts. "What's it matter? I'm fifteen, not five. It's plenty old. How old are you, anyway?"

 

Sinbad hesitates, then nods. He has a point, and his agent had said something about putting in a young love interest, giving the little girls something to hope for. “Twenty-five,” he says, fighting down the urge to mutter the last syllable. He misses being a _prodigy_ , shockingly young for someone in his position, not simply a bit young for someone in his position. “What do you think, should I make you my bride? Or just toss you over my shoulder and chain you to my bed?”

 

_"Ah,_ you _are_ old," Judal muses, a little flicker of surprise going across his face. "You don't look it, though. Kouen looks older. And you can do both, I'll marry you and then you can chain me up and play with me."

 

Sinbad rolls to the side, hands still tangled in Judal’s hair no matter the little huff he lets out. Old, pah. Between Judal and Ja’far’s talk of _grey hairs_ , he really has no friends left. What beasts they are. 

 

Still… “You’d be a pretty bride,” he muses, dancing down a dangerous path of conversation. “All in...hmm, red maybe, and golden chains all around your head.”

 

Judal sprawls himself out, shifting to pull a good mass of his hair out from underneath himself and push it in Sinbad's direction instead. "I'd wear whatever you wanted me to, you know. I'll do that now, even if I'm not your bride."

 

The thought is certainly intriguing, and Sinbad goes through a mental list of things that entice him and things he has available in this room. He slides his hands down Judal’s waist to his thighs, then back up. “I’d like to see you draped in silks,” he murmurs, “and gauzes, something fine that I can see through. Like a concubine of one of the great kings of old.”

 

"Aren't you a great king _now?_ " Judal breathes, his eyes lidding as he shivers beneath the touch, drawing one leg up and pointing his toe to gently drag it along the side of Sinbad's hip. He _likes_ being talked about like this, like he's something precious and treasured and not just a tool to use. "It sounds fitting, to me, especially if it's for _my_ king."

 

Sinbad smiles, running a long finger across the edge of that foot, relaxing back onto his pillow and Judal’s hair. “I’d like to be,” he admits. “Like one of the old wise ones that everyone tells legends about, you know? Where they forget the details, only that he was beloved and just and ruled over most of the known world, and honey and gold flowed like water. And of course, surrounded by the beauty of the world,” he adds, walking his fingers up Judal’s calf.

 

_So let me make you_ my _king, once and for all._

 

It's on the tip of his tongue, but then he remembers that Sinbad doesn't want to fight about that right now, and there's a little twist of fear in his belly, that Sinbad will stop petting him and touching him and make him leave if he asks again.The struggle plays over his face as clear as day, and Judal slinks down into the mattress, pouting instead as he twists his head, pressing his cheek into a pillow. "You could be that. Easily."

 

Something in Sinbad’s chest twists, some anxiety--maybe this time, Judal won’t let it go, will be more accurate, and Sinbad will die naked in his own bed before he’s twenty-six. Actually, the dying young bit doesn’t sound bad, except for the fact that it might be _right_ now. Delicately, he slides his hand down, brushing over the tip of each toe in turn as he turns his head, biting Judal’s nose softly. “When I write about your beauty,” he murmurs, hoping the subject can _stay_ easy and light like this, with Judal wriggling under his touch, “no one will believe me.”

 

He's right--Sinbad will make him leave if he pushes it.

 

It makes his mouth twist again, and Judal sniffs a little, his toes curling slowly. They're right after all. This king doesn't want him. This one, with the warm bed and kind hands and those eyes that look at him like he's something _special_ … 

 

Then again, Judal's seen the way Sinbad looks at his advisor-thing, and that's a lot nicer.

 

"You don't have to embellish it so much." He shuts his eyes, sighing. "Am I even your type?"

 

“Why does everyone ask me that?” Sinbad grumbles, and rolls, flopping across Judal’s body to better bury his face into sweet-smelling skin. “My _type_ is someone lovely that wants me between their legs. You’ve just got that...fire. I want to get close even when I know I’ll get burned.” Speaking in cliches, and he can’t help it. How can he, when Judal looks at him like that?

 

Judal cracks an eye open, brow furrowing. "I don't wanna burn you, though. Actually, I'm pretty awful with fire magic still, but you didn't hear that."

 

“I--”

 

Sinbad bites his tongue, not a moment too soon. “Never mind, then.” And as he nuzzles his head against Judal’s neck, he adds for good measure, “Don’t freeze me, either. I like to keep, uh, everything, in good working condition.”

 

"I don't _like_ freezing you. But sometimes it just kinda happens…" That's one way of putting it. Judal sighs, flopping his arms around Sinbad again. "I wanna just stay here."

 

_Like walking a tightrope over a patch of thin ice_ , Sinbad thinks, even as he pulls the boy closer. “I’m not kicking you out. You can stay as long as you want, I mean it.”

 

"… But you will." Judal's shoulders hunch. "I really want you to be my king, and you won't, so eventually, I have to leave."

 

Sinbad sighs. They’re talking about it, apparently. “I _want_ you to be my Magi,” he explains for what feels like the hundredth time. “I want to be your king and spoil you rotten and take over this part of the world with you. I just can’t work with Al-Sarmen, they’re my sworn enemy.”

 

"I know. You've said it a lot." Judal's teeth worry into his lower lip. "But you know, even if I did decide to leave them, it's kinda the same thing. My rukh is black. It's not gonna change or anything, they told me that awhile ago when I was a kid."

 

“I don’t really care about black rukh,” Sinbad says honestly, and runs his thumb over those soft lips. “And I don’t care what they told you. If you leave them, whenever, whyever, I’ll have you. I’ll want you.” His smile is a little sad. “That goes forever.”

 

"… You're not going to wait that long," is the grumble to follow, and Judal parts his lips to gently bite Sinbad's thumb as he looks up at him. "You're already talking to that lady Magi, I heard about it."

 

Ah, damn. 

 

Sinbad twists his thumb, a rueful grin on his face. “Scheherezade isn’t interested unless I want to move to Laem,” he murmurs, “and I won’t leave Sindria, so you needn’t worry. Besides,” he adds, “your dungeons are a lot more fun than hers.”

 

Judal's nose wrinkles, even as he nips again before languidly sucking Sinbad's thumb into his mouth for a brief, albeit thorough lave of his tongue. "Laem is boring. She's boring. I'd raise more dungeons for you, but… the djinn say you can't go in anymore. Annoying. Good thing you're already so strong."

 

That pain twists, a sudden stab to the gut worse than any icicle. Sinbad closes his eyes, the djinn’s words echoing in his head, and he rests his forehead against Judal’s shoulder. “So you know.”

 

Judal blinks, his head tilting a bit to the side to come and rest against Sinbad's. "Mm, I could feel it once you came back." He lifts a hand, carefully trailing it over the back of Sinbad's head and through his hair, figuring if _he_ likes being petted like that, then Sinbad probably would, too. "You already have seven djinn, though. That's more than anyone else, and they're all really strong. I made sure."

 

It’s strange, feeling those soft hands, uncalloused by any work in his life, threading through Sinbad’s hair. It’s _comforting_ somehow, and he swallows hard, trying not to think about just how comforted he is, and how sort of nice it is to lay his head on Judal for a while. “You aren’t disappointed in me?” he asks, not even aware that he’d been worried until he asked.

 

"Most people can't even get _one_ djinn, you know," Judal huffs, and he drags his fingertips down the back of Sinbad's neck in a slow, methodical stroke. "Plus, I usually have to lead people right to the door of the dungeon. Annoying. You're special. The djinn like you, they want you to have their power… they tell me so, and it's why I could pull up some of the strongest ones for you in particular. So no, I'm not disappointed… well, maybe a little disappointed that I don't get to show up like this and congratulate you and stuff, but…"

 

“I didn’t know there was a limit.” It’s a little embarrassing maybe, but how was he to know? No one had ever conquered a dungeon before him. Before him, they’d said it couldn’t be done. Certainly no one had ever said anything about _limits_. “I thought I could just...go on collecting them forever. Keep doing _this_ forever.”

 

"Normal people have ceilings, _ceilings_." His fingers curl through Sinbad's hair, giving a light tug. "You have way more magoi than most, but you're still not a Magi."

 

“I don’t like being just a normal person,” Sinbad grumbles, feeling childish and not caring a whit. “I’ve been better than _normal people_ my whole life. I always thought that if I trained hard enough, I’d be able to hold more magoi, or something.”

 

"Mm, but you're still not really _normal_ , because you do have so much," Judal muses. "If you were _normal_ , I wouldn't be here, after all."

 

It’s a relief, sort of. It’s not _enough_ , but it’s a bit of a relief. “I want to be more than special,” he says, eyes seeing far beyond the walls of the room. “I want to be...beholden to no one. I want to built my country more on ideas than land. I want everyone in the world to know not just who I am, but who my people are, and _what_ I am.”

 

Judal butts his head into his shoulder. "The greatest kings have had Magi at their side, you know." 

 

Sinbad has to wonder just how many of those words Judal had understood, or even really heard. He yawns, uncaring of how early it is when he’s so comfortable, and nuzzles into Judal’s side. “Be mine alone and I will, too.”

 

"… I want to," Judal sighs, and he drapes his arms loosely about the other man, snuggling against him. "I like your bed a lot."

 

“Whenever you say the word,” Sinbad murmurs, inhaling deeply at the swirl of oriental spices. “I’d keep you in my bed all the time. I’d feed you...what do you like to eat?”

 

The thought of food is good. Really good. "Peaches are my favorite," Judal readily answers. "But I hate vegetables so don't even try."

 

Sinbad snorts. “Why would I try feeding you something you don’t want to eat? I have peaches, you can eat your fill.”

 

"I eat a lot," is the immediate warning. 

 

“What kind of king would I be if I didn’t have plenty?” Sinbad asks, carelessly. He’s got to have at least a dozen peaches in the kitchen, not to mention...well, plenty of things that aren’t vegetables, probably. Then he buries his face. “Whenever you want to leave the bed. Otherwise I’ll have to leave, or call a servant in here.” _And it might be Ja’far who answers_ , is the unspoken addendum.

 

"Don't wanna leave." Food can wait… ah, well, for at least a little while longer, judging by the rumbling of his belly. "I'd almost like seeing that advisor of yours feed me on a gold platter, though."

 


End file.
